


Midnight Rider

by LadySalamander



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, CW mentions of suicide attempt, Canon-Typical Violence, Genji ships it, Gratuitous Movie References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, but in the end i'm a comedic writer, on the road / travel, questionable slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-30 02:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16756213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySalamander/pseuds/LadySalamander
Summary: McCree meets a lonely stranger on the midnight train, a man on a journey to find redemption and quickly becomes swept along for the ride. But it might turn out that he knows more about this stranger than he expected. To bad for McCree he was falling for the guy ...





	1. I've Got to Run to Keep From Hidin'

**Author's Note:**

> Whatup welcome to the first multi chapter fic I have ever finished ever. Please, enjoy yourself I promise it's not as dour as the tags suggest! This fic was completed before _Reunion_ was released, so RIP any character revelations related to that. And big thanks to the Popsicle Emperor for the beta-read! Title from - you guessed it - The Allman Brothers.

* * *

A train these days made a sound like a jet engine. It was the new sound of the rails, the sound of the future having arrived, thought Jesse McCree. A high pitched roar that faded into an electric drone, so different from the sound trains made in the old movies, the rhythmic _ktat - ktunk, ktat - ktunk_. But trains didn’t have wheels anymore to make that noise so like a heartbeat, the visceral sound of the arteries that brought blood to growing nations. More like humanity, and less like a machine. McCree had always wanted to ride one of those old trains. He heard there was a place in Pennsylvania, a museum where they kept a few of them in working order, belching steam and smoke along a scant few miles of country track.

But McCree wasn’t in Pennsylvania enjoying the countryside, he was in China watching it whip by from the interior of this maglev beast instead. Not that there was anything wrong with this countryside, but he would much rather be a tourist on vacation rather than here because he had one friend in Nepal who wanted to see him, and many folks back in New Mexico who wanted to see him dead.

This meant hauling his ass over the Pacific, across China, and into Nepal without being hunted, tracked, followed, or otherwise noticed at all by any organization Talon had sunk its titular claws into, which was a growing number indeed. He’d paid good money for a fake ID, hopped on a plane that got him to the first stopover, and all seemed to be going pretty well until he noticed airport security eying him and whispering into their radios. Which meant disappearing into the crowd, out of security, into the city and onto a train. Classic move. Took longer, but at least it would get him to the border, and he could decide what to do from there. 

The white noise of the train lulled him somewhat. Overall Jesse liked trains. They fit his image. He knew he shouldn’t let it go to his head, lull him into a false sense of security, but, he thought, he might as well enjoy himself. Even though it was a mag train it was an older model meant for site seeing, for the pleasure of travel rather than expediency. A call back to when the world did not yet feel so small. The steady rocking of the train had already taken its toll on the compartment’s other passenger. He’d made Jesse uneasy at first, all wordless and stone faced. Jesse kept his hand under his coat on his revolver, increasingly wary of having been cornered by a Talon agent. But then the stranger had buried his nose in a book and ignored Jesse altogether, eventually nodding off with his head against the window sill and his nose buried in the high collar of his coat. If he was Talon, he was either a very, very good actor or a very, very bad agent. Jesse opted to be optimistic, deciding the guy was just another passenger. If he was wrong, he could always bail out of a train moving at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, anyway. Easy peasy, right? He’d thought the man a local, at first, but then it caught on that the cover of the book that so entranced him was in Japanese. Which really, logically, only told him that the man could read Japanese, but it was a pretty good indicator nonetheless. Jesse _had_ tried to talk to him. A smile and a wave said something in pretty much any language. He’d remarked on the weather, wondering if it would snow, but the guy only placed his bag between his knees and retreated behind his book, putting up the metaphorical “do not disturb” sign. 

The real problem, Jesse saw, was that he was going to be on this train for three days, and the least a person could do was answer a hello. Jesse sighed. He’s been on the road so long, you’d think the concept of a lull in the adventure would be inviting. Idly he imagined a life where it was of utmost importance to bring a book in case of boredom. Reyes used to do that, especially in the early years. While the rest of them squirmed and chatted in the back of a personnel carrier all hopped up on adrenaline Reyes would kick his feet up and read a goddamn book. A younger Jesse McCree neither cared enough about literature nor had the gall disturb his C.O. to ask what he was reading. Now he wondered if it would have told him about the man. Was he reading about tactics? Chess? Sun Tzu? Novels? Classics or pulp? Reyes could have been a _Ulysses_ kinda guy, now Jesse would never know. It really seemed very trivial back then, something boring that older people did, and then as Reyes had become more subdued the reading had become more infrequent, as if the man could no longer distract himself from the thoughts that plagued him.

The man in the seat across from Jesse mumbled something in Japanese. Jesse’s mind swam back to reality, hopeful he could finally say something to his travelling companion. But the man only shifted, still asleep, mumbling in his dreams. Jesse sighed. He patted his pockets, looking for something to occupy himself. To his surprise he came up with a deck of cards in a tattered cardboard box, squirreled away and forgotten about in an inside pocket. A quick inspection reminded him it was missing the king of hearts, but that could be ignored he supposed in a game of solitaire, where there was only himself to cheat on and disappoint. The age of the train means it only had miniscule tables like university style desks that flipped down from the walls, rather than the hard light emitters built under the windows in newer models. It couldn’t hold the whole row of cards, meaning some of the game spilled over onto his knees. So be it. The landscape outside the window was grey from winter and dusted with snow, and it was growing dull to look at. The train didn’t stop for hours. All Jesse had to do was wait.

* * *

The first deal was a dud, even ignoring the absence of the King of Hearts. Jesse’s legs, not as young as they used to be and still pissed from being stuck on a plane so long, began to cramp. He stretched as he shuffled the cards, eyeing the bench across the way and the possibility of resting his feet on it. The guy was asleep after all. Didn’t think he would mind of Jesse took up a little more than his share of leg room.

“ _Īe_ …” the guy muttered, as Jesse was gingerly placing his feet on the opposite bench. Jesse froze, but it only appeared he was talking in his sleep again. Jesse continued, flipping the cards onto the teeny table. But the man on the opposite bench didn’t stop either. He began to twitch a little, murmuring continually. Jesse watched him, somewhat amused, or at least glad for a distraction. That is, until the guy really started to move, beginning to breath heavily and thrash. Jesse sat up, worried.

“Hey,” he said softly. Then again, louder, when he went unheeded. “Whoa there!” he said, reaching out to grasp the man’s shoulder. He had intended to shake him awake but the moment his hand made contact the man’s eyes snapped open, awake and wild, and somehow in the midst of all that there was a knife in his hand, less than an inch from Jesse’s throat.

“Easy,” said McCree, slowly raising his metal hand to impede the point of the blade. “Easy, partner. You were sufferin’ a nightmare there.”

The man’s eyes darted back and forth, assessing the compartment and its occupant.

“I was,” he realized, lowering the knife. “I was. My apologies.”

Ah, so he did speak after all. Jesse backed away, expecting something of a standoff, but the Japanese man only dropped the knife into his lap and rubbed his eyes wearily. Jesse quickly ran over what he had just learned about the man he was sharing a compartment with. One: This guy could move a knife so fast he definitely wasn’t a typical passenger, and Two: He was having a terrible day.

“You look like you’ve had a terrible day,” Jesse said aloud.

“An understatement,” the man replied, returning the knife, Jesse noted, to his sleeve.

“Hm, well, I know how it can be” said Jesse, stretching now that he was standing anyway. Crap, now he didn’t want to sit down again. “You know what? You sit tight, I’ll fetch us some coffee.” Without giving himself time to second guess he grabbed the door handle.

“Wait,” said the man. Jesse paused. Shit, maybe this guy was a bounty hunter.

“I do not drink coffee,” he said. Jesse relaxed by a degree.

“Probably for the best. Tea it is then.”

“Green, if you please.”

Jesse returned twenty minutes later with two piping hot styrofoam cups of thin looking green tea and admittedly mediocre coffee. He hadn’t planned on taking so long, but he also had not planned on hiding in the toilet in order to avoid the ticket checker, either. The Japanese fellow seemed mildly surprised to see him return at all.

“I thought I may have scared you off.”

“And leave my cards behind? Besides, takes a lot more’n that to scare me.” He grinned to emphasize his candor, handing the other man his tea.

“Indeed,” he replied. “I would have hated to interrupt such a rousing game of …” he trailed off, trying to determine what game Jesse had been playing based on the cards scattered across the opposite bench.

“Solitaire,” Jesse supplied. “Old fashioned way to pass the time, I admit.”

The other guy had his brow furrowed in thought. “I think my computer came with solitaire.”

Jesse, still standing, was struck with an idea. “Well, now that you’re awake anyway, why don’t we play a game?”

“Of cards?”

“What else?” Shit, thought Jesse, now he’d gone and made the other guy uncomfortable and was liable to scare him off. He sure looked it, all furrowed brow and suspicious. Wait, scratch that. Jesse knew better. His intentions were being sized up; the guy he was sharing the compartment with was still gauging whether he was a threat.

Jesse stuck out a hand.

“Name’s McCree, by the way. Jesse McCree.

Finally, _finally_ , the other guy reached out to him - literally! - and shook Jesse’s hand.

“Ise,” he said. “Ise Shiro. Thank you for the tea.”

“For such a handsome fella as yourself, anytime,” Jesse replied with a smile, plopping himself back into his seat. The man was handsome too, sharp jawed and raven haired and absolutely rocking his undercut, but with a touch of grey in the beard, a hint at sophistication. Jesse gathered the cards from around his seat, intent on shuffling for a game of poker or gin maybe, but Shiro held out his hand. Jesse handed him the cards.

“What would you like to play?” he asked, shuffling in the mindless way of someone who has done it a thousand times.

“Teach me somethin’,” said Jesse. “You sound like you’re from Japan, am I right?”

“You are.”

“Well, what kinda’ card games do you have over there?”

Shiro continued to shuffle, thinking. 

“With these cards?” he asked. “Have you ever played two-ten-jack?”

“Can’t say I have.”

Shiro hummed. “I have been told it plays similarly to euchre. The idea is the same.”

“Taking tricks?”

“Yes. however the trump is different, and there are points to be taken in to consideration.”

“Sounds good,” said Jesse. “I like something of a challenge.” He grinned at Shiro. Maybe this ride would be interesting after all. Shiro however ignored his flirtations, instead dealing out the cards.

“I will explain,” he said, “as we go.”

It did remind Jesse of euchre, leading, drawing out your opponent, and once he got the hang of the scoring they fell into an easy rhythm. Shiro was still coming out on top however because he was fucking impossible to read to the point where it was distracting. Jesse was focusing so hard on trying to find the guy’s tell that he forgot what cards he had in his hand. He has hoped to parley into a game of poker, Jesse’s game of choice, but now he was almost afraid. He got the feeling this guy could play him easy as a whistle if he had the mind to. Jesse had wanted to up the ante a little, but now betting what little money he carried seemed like a much riskier proposition. Or maybe that was part of Shiro’s game, intimidating his opponent into playing it safe. It wasn’t something McCree had ever tried - he wasn’t fond of playing mind games. He liked it straight up, liked to win because he was the better player and that was that. Jesse checked the time. Almost nightfall. His stomach rumbled. He’d missed lunch in favour of hopping on the train. Maybe there was a way to test Shiro’s game after all. Jesse hunkered down, clearing his mind (mostly by not looking at Shiro) and focusing on the next hand. He had to win to make this work. Lady Luck was with him; Jesse scooped up the trick, then the next, and the next. Shiro frowned. Good. Jesse straightened as he shuffled the cards and drew his most winning smile.

“Don’t worry, it's just luck is all. Look, why don’t we make it more interestin’? How do you feel about upping the ante?”

Shiro’s perpetual frown deepened.

“I would prefer not to.”

“Nah,” said Jesse, “I ain’t talking money. Let’s say, best of five, loser buys dinner?”

Shiro looked at him without tilting his head, calculating again.

“That is acceptable,” he decided.

Jesse shuffled the cards a little more. No sleight of hand, no tricks. He riffled the cards easily in his large hands. Just rile him up. Distract him. Jesse stretched his legs to their full length, crossed them right over left and settled back casually in his seat and dealt.

Jesse took the first trick, then the second. And then, as soon as he was sure he had the third, Shiro scooped it out from under him. Shiro then proceeded to take the next, and neatly won the final round without breaking a sweat or even changing his expression for that matter. Cool and assured the whole time. He was sure he didn’t cheat, or at least wasn’t cheating using a method he was familiar with. And to make matters worse Jesse’s flirting wasn’t working at all, even though Shiro watched him roll up his sleeves and chew his lip through every round.

“Dinner then?” said Shiro, neatly packing their cards back into their battered box and handing it primly back to Jesse.

“You lead the way,” said McCree.

“No, please,” said Shiro, indicating the door. “I insist.” McCree wondered if he was being so cautious how the man had fallen asleep so readily. They stood and passed into the corridor, forced to march single file in the narrow halls of the train.

“So,” said Jesse, by way of making conversation. “Where you headed?”

There was a pause from behind him.

“Ultimately,” said Shiro. “Nepal.”

“What a coincidence,” remarked McCree. “Me too.”

“And pray tell what sort of business does a cowboy have in the mountains of Nepal?”

McCree shrugged. “Visitn’ an old friend up at the monastery in Shambali.”

“Is your friend an omnic?”

McCree barked out a laugh. “Kinda, yeah. What about yourself?”

“My brother lives in the area.”

“What,” Jesse teased, “your brother an omnic?” He chuckled at his own joke, but when there was no reply he peeked over his shoulder to see Shiro looking uncomfortable.

“Something like that,” Shiro murmured.

“Eh,” said McCree turning away. “Sorry about that. Omnics aint a joke for everyone.” The sound of a door rattling drew his attention to the end of the car. It was the ticket inspector. Shit. Jesse’s eyes flicked around the car. The toilet again. Perfect.

“Pardon me!” he declared, ducking into the tiny washroom, nearly cracking his knee on the sink. Jesus there was barely enough room to turn around in here. McCree positioned himself on the lid of the toilet and pulled out his phone. The battery warning flashed at him, a healthy fifteen percent left. A quick search produced nothing on any Shiro Ise. No bounty, no missing persons. No one who looked like him, either. This guy could be legit normal, just visiting his brother for the new year.

“Hey!” said a male voice, followed by someone banging on the door and a burst of chinese.

“He asks how much longer you will be,” Shiro called.

“Uhh,” said Jesse, “give me a minute! Still workin’.”

Jeeze, if he was just some guy Jesse wondered if he should get away from him in case the shit really did hit the fan. The banging and the Chinese started up again, and Jesse didn’t need a translator to tell him what was going on. 

“All right!” he called, flushing the toilet for emphasis. “All right, all right!” He faked washing his hands too, preparing himself for his inevitable flight from the ticket checker. Poor Shiro would have to pay for his own dinner. Jesse would have to find him again and apologize if he could, take him somewhere proper. Jesse braced himself.

It was not the ticket checker.

It was in fact a father and his young son, who was ushered past Jesse almost before he was out the door.

“Shall we?” asked Shiro.

“We shall,” Jesse agreed, having lost his one conceivable out.

“I hope,” said Shiro, “ that since you did not have enough money for a ticket, you have enough for dinner.”

Jesse dismissed the comment with a wave. “Don’t have time for tickets. Deal’s a deal anyhow. I keep my word.”

“Honour in a man who obviously considered himself lawless. I am surprised.”

Now Jesse did turn, leaning down slightly so he could look Shiro in the eye and grinning widely.

“You say that like you’re gonna do something about it.”

“I am going to hold you to your promise of dinner. Now, please, we are almost at the dining car.”

Jesse threw back his head and laughed. “I like you! You look like you could stare down a pack of wild coyote and tell them to shut the hell up and give you a good night’s sleep.” He said it coy-oats, leaning heavily on his accent.

“I’d like to think so,” Shiro replied.

“Man,” Jesse chuckled, “they really don’t have coyotes in Japan, do they.”

“A wild dog is a wild dog.”

“Coyotes ‘r smart though,” said McCree. “They might back off for the time being, but they’ll still be there ready to get you when you least expect it.”

“And are you a coyote?” Shiro asked, mimicking Jesse’s accent. His eyes were bright and sharp. Damn, that should not feel like such a loaded question. Jesse was just trying to rib him a little bit. Maybe he had noticed after all.

“Damn straight,” he replied, smiling. “Tricky, gone before ya’ know I’m there.”

“And will you stick around long enough this today to make good on your word?”

Jesse tipped his hat. “Long as you’ll have me.”

The dining car was not packed, but it was busy enough that McCre couldn’t maintain his image by sitting in a corner and keeping an eye on both doors at once. Granted he didn’t think his life was in immediate danger - he didn’t think they would literally throw him off a moving train for not paying his fare, but one could never be too cautious and besides, it would be a hassle. He’d probably have to break out of jail and everything.

“Are we allowed to bring food back to our seats?” he asked Shiro.

“One would assume,” Shiro replied. “As long as it has been paid for.”

“Yeah yeah, quit yer sarcasm,” McCree drawled, crossing his arms and staring up at the menu like he knew what he was looking at. He’d definitely become well travelled during his years in Blackwatch, but reading certain languages had become a sticking point, i.e. he had no clue what he was looking at. McCree just learned to trust his gut and expect the unexpected. The coffee and tea had had pictures next to them that he could just point at, but most of the food was just numbered and listed. After a couple of quiet minutes, during which the cashier shot them furtive glances as she cleaned the counter, Shiro asked,

“Do you know what you would like to order?”

“Chicken .. fried … noodles,” McCree guessed.

“Which one?”

“The spicy one.”

Shiro’s eyes flicked to the menu then back to McCree.

“Are you sure?”

“Uh, yeah I’m sure.”

“It is spicier than you may think.”

“I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure?”

Shiro huffed. “You yanks are all the same. You have no idea what you are getting yourself into.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up a minute,” said McCree. “First of all, I ain’t no Yankee. A yankee is a stuffed up northerner who can’t tell a pepper from a tomato and has never tasted real food in their pampered little life. Secondly, _si quieres picante, puedo hacer picante mejor que cualquier chef de ferrocarriles. Crecí en la cocina mexicana adecuada, muchas gracias_.”

Shiro just blinked at him through the barrage of spanish, uncomprehending.

“Alright then,” he replied. “I will take your word for it.” He flagged the cashier and began to order for them in his stilted chinese. McCree was just glad there was a chicken fried noodle option on the menu, saving him the embarrassment. He fished through his pockets for a credit chit that he was 90% sure still had enough money on it. When the total came up he used it to tap Shiro on the shoulder, who reached back without looking and took it without missing a beat. When he handed it back he did so along with all the plastic bags containing their food and, as before, indicated that McCree should lead the way. They didn’t say much until they were parked back in their seats, styrofoam containers of food clogging the little fold down tables and Shiro’s bag returned to the space between his knees. He certainly was protective about that thing.

“Well then” said McCree. “What is it they say in Japan?”

“ _Itadakimasu_ ,” Shiro replied, briefly folding his hands before picking up his chopsticks and digging in.

“Amen,” McCree chuckled. The chicken was spicy. Different than McCree was used to, less bite, more of a slow rolling burn. But still good.

“Is it up to your _southern standards_?” Shiro asked, a definite mocking edge to his voice. But he quirked a smile when he said it.

“Hell yeah,” said McCree. “I mean, it’s no home cooking, but I’m not disappointed. He took a few more bites before he realized Shiro was was watching him. He looked up at which point Shiro went back to his own food.

“What?” asked McCree, though it was more of a statement than a question.

“I have been meaning to ask,” said Shiro, ”what is the story behind your attire? Is it part of your … heritage?”

“Why? What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“You dress like a cowboy.”

“I am a cowboy.”

Shiro gave him a deadpan look. “You raise cattle?” McCree laughed.

“It stands out,” Shiro countered. McCree just shrugged.

“Alright then. Tell me; why did you decide you wanted to be a cowboy?”

“Why not a cowboy? It ain’t a dead profession. There are plenty of folks who raise cattle where I come from.”

“And there are many ‘folks who cook noodles where I come from.”

“Sure, but there ain’t no romance in being a noodle chef.”

“Perhaps you do not know any better.”

“Do they make movies about the adventures of noodle chefs? About protectin’ the innocent when the law won’t? And if you’re gonna tell me there’s an anime about a noodle chef vigilantes, I really don’t need to hear it.”

“Perhaps,” said Shiro. “Such entertainment was never for me.”

“What you mean westerns or anime?”

“Both.”

“Now that,” said Jesse, “is a cryin’ shame. Some of the very best westerns are based on Japanese films.”

“Mm, I have heard so before,” said Shiro. Jesse looked hopeful.

“From a Japanese history class,” Shiro finished.

“Well that settles it. You need a proper education.”

“I do not believe that no matter how fond I was of a film, I would be inclined to dress as if I lived in it.”

“Ain’t no point denyin’ what I am, even if I do look a little different.” McCree knew he stood out here more than back home. He’d considered travelling undercover, but he’d reached the point of not wanting to hide any more. You couldn’t play the part half-assed.

They spent the rest of the evening chatting, playing cards. Light conversation; Shiro steered hard away from anything personal, so McCree stopped asking. They bet snacks and cigarettes on games of two - ten - jack and texas hold ‘em. McCree ended up with a bag of seaweed potato chips, Shiro with one of McCree’s cigarillos. He tucked it away for later. Too cold to stand outside between the cars and smoke. Eventually they both started yawning, lapsing into silence as their eyes grew heavy. McCree propped his bag under his head and lay back on the bench, knees bent. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst, either. He feigned sleep , waiting until Shiro’s breathing evened out before slipping Peacekeeper out of his coat and unloading the cylinder. If someone on the train wanted to get to him, they would have gotten to him by now. Sleeping with a loaded gun wasn’t worth the risk. After that, he drifted. The view outside the window was the black of rural nighttime. There were no lights on the tracks, only snow on the fields reflecting the moon in the sky, occasionally broken by the blinding light of a lamp at a railway signal station.

Across the way, Shiro stirred. He twitched, muttered something, and then suddenly jerked awake, grasping for something on the seat beside him that wasn’t there. Jesse heard him sigh heavily before peeling himself off the seat and departing the cabin, presumably in search of the washroom. That was twice in a row now Shiro had suffered from a disturbed sleep.

Outside the window, McCree could see the lights of a town approaching, bright orange against the clouds and the snow. McCree closed his eyes, wishing the night on this uncomfortable little bench to pass quickly. He hoped Shiro would be willing to put up with him in the morning (heh). He was enjoying the company.

Shiro returned as the train pulled into town. He settled back in his seat, balling his coat behind his head and trying to recapture his sleep. He’d only closed his eyes for a few moments before the train began to slow on approach to the station. The lights came on and a voice announced their destination in several languages.

“Perfect,” grumbled McCree. Now the conductor would be making their rounds again. McCree sat up and stretched, making sure everything he had was tucked away, ready to grab it and run at a moment’s notice. For the time being, he leaned back and watched the crowd on the platform, listened to the bustle of the passengers as they embarked an disembarked, mostly families travelling for the new year. Somewhere nearby a child cried, unhappy with being woken in the night. Out on the brightly lit platform people hurried to and fro, hiding their noses and hands in their coats to fight off the chill, their breath clouding in the air. It wasn’t anything new to McCree, but it was still kind of exotic. It got cold in New Mexico, but it never froze for long, not these prolonged freezes where the snow piled and froze, stained from the fumes of exhaust, and the concrete turned white from dust and road salt, stark against the brightly coloured coats of the people on the platform. McCree hadn’t even owned a winter coat until he fled the airport and began to shiver under the single layer of his serape. His coat was long and black and a little tight around the shoulders, but it fit the image well enough.

Speaking of an image, three men had emerged onto the platform that caught McCree’s eye.They all wore black suit pants under black woolen coats. None carried luggage, and they all wore sunglasses despite the late hour. McCree straightened to get a better look. They weren’t security, that much was for sure. Security wore heavy uniform parkas and reflective vests.

“The hell is with these guys?” he said aloud. Shiro opened his eyes, and leaned a little to see out the window.

“The spooks in the black jackets,” said McCree. Shiro’s eyes widened.

“ _Chikushō_ ,” Shiro swore.

“Friends o’ yours?” asked McCree.

“You could say that,” Shiro replied, checking his bag and the large, oblong carrying case he was travelling with. Jesse glanced out the window. Shit, the conductor was out there, too. Shiro stood.

“Hold it,” said McCree, throwing out his arm. Amazingly, Shiro actually paused.

“They’re headed for the train,” said McCree, his eyes fixed on the goons.

“I am aware.”

“Train’s about to leave.”

“I am aware,” Shiro repeated through clenched teeth.

“Hold it,” Jesse repeated. The first goon had boarded the train a couple cars down. The second followed.The third took a final look around the platform before he too alighted the train.

“Go!” McCree ordered the second the last goon was out of sight. Shiro didn’t need to be told twice. He looked like he wanted to bolt.

“Easy,” said McCree. “We wanna move fast, but we’ll draw attention if we run.”

“There is a ‘we’ now?”

“Eh,” said McCree, looking around. “I think my welcome is wearing out with the conductor. Besides, we’re headed the same way.” Shiro huffed in annoyance, but he didn’t remark any further. They disembarked, Jesse wincing at the sudden onslaught of chilly night air.

“What’s the plan?” Shiro asked, shrugging his pack onto his shoulders and tightening the straps snugly.

“Stay low. Find an alternative route.”

“Hopefully we’re near a highway.”

“You are familiar with the highways around here?”

“I know how to find my way west, does that count?”

The two of them had just reached the edge of the platform when there was a commotion from the train. Jesse and Shiro turned back to see the goons tapping on the window and shouting, drawing the attention of the crowd to the pair. One of them was speaking into a cell phone.

“Kay,” said McCree. “Now we run.” He grabbed Shiro’s arm and they booked it, barely taking the time to avoid casualties in the crowd. Shit, Shiro could move thought McCree. He wove through the throng and made running look effortless, drawing breath deep and steady even though McCree was already panting like a dog in the summer heat. They took a direction at random, exploding out of the station and banking a hard right without slowing down. From across the parking lot came a shout, and McCree spotted three more goons idling around a parked hover van. Shiro saw them too, and kept moving without sparing them a second glance. Shiro lead them around the corner out of sight of their pursuers before ducking down an alley. Brick buildings and black steel fire escapes on either wide, a low concrete wall at the far end. They vaulted the wall - again Shiro took it effortlessly while Jesse felt somewhat like a tossed sack of potatoes - before pausing to catch their breath and reorient themselves.

“Holy shit,” panted McCree. “Who are those guys?”

“Yakuza,” Shiro replied, with very little inflection.

“Oh,” said McCree. “Good. Okay.” He dug in his pocket for a quick loader while Shiro scanned their surroundings, blindly unsnapping the clasps on his odd oblong carrying case. He only turned to see what Jesse was up to when the telltale sound of the cylinder being set gave him away. Shiro froze.

“What?” asked McCree, looking behind himself. “Something up?” There was no one there.

“You have a gun,” said Shiro.

“Uh… yeah. So I do.” Jesse grinned.

“You have had a gun this whole time?” asked Shiro. “On the train?”

“Sorry,” said McCree. “Unfortunately I ain’t exactly your friendly neighbourhood cowpoke. Though I’m thinkin’ the sentiment is mutual.”

“I did not think they would send someone like you.”

“Who would send me to do what now?” Jesse noticed Shiro had continued to slowly open up the case.

“I am valuable to them alive, you know,” he continued.

“Well, that’s good and all but sometimes you can’t wait for the other guy to shoot first.” He quickly surveilled their surroundings. Shiro and Jesse were crouched in a small vacant lot, connected by a driveway to the street. “You got a rifle in there or something?” He asked. “Hurry up.”

Shiro paused.

“They did not send you to kill me?”

“What,” said McCree, “the yakuza guys?” he chuckled. “Nope.”

Shiro hurried.

It was a goddamn bow, in the case, of all things. Jesse was a little disappointed; with all the secrecy he was hoping for one of those new Helix automatics or at least something more intimidating. Well, at the very least a bow was quiet, and Shiro could string it with practiced swiftness. Just as he finished they heard shouting from the end of the alley down which they had come, in Japanese.

“Come out with your hands up,” Shiro translated.

“Fat chance,” McCree muttered. Shiro was loading an arrow into his bow, testing the draw. He kept low and aimed high at the wall of the alley. Did he hope to peg them with a ricochet? McCree watched the arrow as it was fired, hit the wall and split.What began as one projectile was now several, rebounding wildly around the alley. Men cried out in alarm, and Shiro took the moment of distraction to peek over the wall.

“Three,” he said. “Meaning, if they are clever enough, two or more in the van.”

As if one cue they heard the hum of a hover engine, and saw the lights of a vehicle on the street. Jesse ducked his head low and skittered quickly across the lot to hide from the men on the road behind the wall in the corner, next to the driveway. The hover van had stopped on the street, disgorging two of the goons, their guns drawn. They advanced on Shiro, eyes fixed on their prize. Shiro held his ground. He didn’t make a move to fire, but he didn’t drop his bow, either. Jesse waited until the goons were well into the lot before standing.

“Hold it there boys. That’s far enough.”

One of the goons, bless his heart, turned and tried to fire on McCree. Jesse pulled the trigger as he turned, landing a bullet in the yakuza’s arm. He yelped in pain, dropping his gun and clutching the wound, blood welling up between his fingers. McCree grinned at the other guy, indicating with Peacekeeper’s muzzle that the man should lower his weapon to the ground. Meanwhile Shiro once again wasted no time, taking off toward the street. McCree heard the brief sounds of a struggle from the van, before Shiro hollered for him. McCree made a show of kicking away the yakuza’s gun before backing off. The goon didn’t turn until McCree did, diving for his weapon as McCree tumbled into the van. He didn’t even get a chance to close the door before Shiro was on the gas, the remaining goons from the alley rounding the corner just in time to watch them speed away.

“They will report the van as stolen,” said Shiro. “We cannot hang onto it for long.”

“Yeah,” McCree grunted, pulling himself forward into the passenger seat. “I figured.” He let out a long breath, winded from their brief adventure, and kicked his feet up on the dash before buckling himself in.

“Phew,” McCree drawled. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be gone before you know it. What a guy like you do to piss off guys like them?”

Shiro was silent, staring fixedly at the dark road and yellow lines ahead. Silent for so long McCree began to grow afraid. Way to let your guard down and get friendly with a stranger, McCree.

“I defected,” Shiro said finally.

“Ah,” McCree replied. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.”


	2. Maybe Down In Lonesome Town I Can Learn To Forget

* * *

By the time they reached the next town, the pair had tentatively swapped their stories.

“I was so blinded by ambition and duty I almost killed someone very dear to me,” Shiro confessed. McCree fiddled with his lighter, flicking the flame on and off. Shiro looked very tired. “He contacted me recently, seeking to reconcile.”

“The aforementioned brother.”

“The same.”

McCree flicked the lid of the lighter. Click clack. “I used to run with a gang called Deadlock,” he said. “We ran guns, drugs. I was young. There were other gangs with other boys like me, and if they got in our way -” he made a gun out of his fingers and aimed it out the window. “-pow.”

“What was a boy doing in a gang like that?” asked Shiro.

Jesse shrugged. It was a question he had asked himself a lot over the years, and the answer changed every time. They wanted me because I could shoot. I thought it was cool. ‘Cause I was young and stupid.

“Cause I was hungry,” he replied. “And lonely. And when the government took kids, we never saw ‘em again.”

“You make them sound like some sort of … _namehage_. A spirit that punishes bad children. A boogeyman.”

McCree huffed a laugh. “Sentiment’s not far off. That’s pretty much what we thought of them. But I’d be dead in a desert ditch if Deadlock didn’t get to me, so goes to show. What about yourself? You got a better story than me?”

“No,” said Shiro. “It was tradition. I was born into it, that is all.”

“Like Michael Corleone.”

“Whom?”

McCree waved his hand. “Never mind. That’s kinda shitty anyway. At least I can say I made my own dumbass mistakes.”

“But how far can you go and still claim your actions are the result of someone else’s decisions? A trapped child may be one thing, but a man makes his own decisions, his own mistakes.”

If Shiro had glanced sideways, he would have seen McCree staring at him, watching him. McCree was increasingly vastly intrigued by his new travel companion, beyond why he looked so good, and he itched to know the details of what drove him to this place seeking reconciliation.

“Why did you leave?” asked Shiro. McCree shrugged and looked away, spell broken.

“Overwatch,” he said. 

“I do not follow,” said Shiro.

“I got caught by Overwatch. They said work for us or go to jail. I wasn’t even old enough to drink, so naturally I decided I wasn’t going to jail.”

“Naturally.”

“But,” said McCree. “I never backed out of an Overwatch mission involvin’ Deadlock.” He didn’t know why he was telling Shiro that bit. Maybe he felt a kindred spirit. “Used to have a tattoo,” McCree continued. “‘Bout yay big,” he indicated the space on his forearm with thumb and middle finger. “Practically said ‘Property of Deadlock’. When the gang found out what I was up to they came and took ‘er back.” He grinned a little, wiggling his prosthetic hand, trying to make a joke out of it. Shiro made a face, part grimace, part smile of sympathy. Keeping his left hand on the wheel he reached over an tugged up the sleeve on his coat, revealing a few inches of an intricate blue tattoo.

“I am glad I’m not running from Deadlock, then.” McCree guffawed, genuinely tickled by Shiro’s one-upmanship.

“You turned against them,” said Shiro, eyes back on the road.

“Yeah,” said McCree. “At the time it felt … right? Like it was the right thing to do? But in hindsight it was .. not that great.”

“You did what you felt was honorable.”

“That’s a good word for it, yeah.”

“But who’s idea of honor was it? Yours? Deadlock’s? That of Overwatch?”

McCree settled back further, his hands linked behind his head. He watched the dark grey and white blur of the winter countryside.

“At the time I mighta’ said it was that of one Gabriel Reyes, but now I don’t know.”

They ditched the van in the next town as day was breaking and the cloudy night lightened a little into a cloudy grey dawn. Jesse wiped down the van while Shiro disassembled his bow and packed the pieces into his remaining bag, the carrying case having been forgotten back in the vacant lot. They - or rather, Shiro - found a place that would serve them breakfast but, sadly, no coffee. They sat at a chipped but clean table with a linoleum table top next to the big glass windows, the early morning light throwing sharp shadows on the floor.

“Those hot drink vending machines,” said Jesse wistfully, thinking of a hot cup of joe. “That’s one thing Japan has over the rest of the world. I was only there once for a week but man, I miss those vending machines.”

By the time they got their food Shiro had lapsed into an even deeper silence, that of someone who is bone tired. Staying on the move had kept his energy up, but once they settled down he began to fade fast. McCree was still used to all nighters. He really wished he wasn’t at his age, but luckily McCree was the kind of guy who could catch fourty winks almost anywhere. Meanwhile he doubted Shiro had been sleeping well to begin with, especially with those nightmares. He felt guilty watching Shiro tiredly pick his way through a conversation in Chinese with the waitress, explaining that they were lost and asking her how to continue heading west. She told them of the train, naturally. McCree almost rolled his eyes. Maybe they should find a motel and sleep the day away, among other things. Maybe they could steal some plates, switch them and the tracking chip out on the yakuza van, McCree had done it before. Maybe just the tracking chip, switch it out with someone unsuspecting, get them on a wild goose chase tracking another car. Jesus. He hadn’t even formally answered the recall yet and he was already in Blackwatch mode. Is this what it was going to do to him?

“Anything cheaper than the train?” he asked. Shiro translated his question. The waitress shook her head. The bus only went as far as the train. Shiro thanked her and she left them to it. The restaurant was quiet, with only muffled sounds from the kitchen and the clink of china and chopsticks as an elderly couple, the only other patrons, ate their morning meal.

“Maybe you should go back to the train on your own,” McCree suggested. “I’ll just slow you down.”

To his surprise, Shiro shook his head almost immediately. It ignited a pleasant little flame of warmth in Jesse’s chest.

“They will still be watching the train. Besides, I do not think you wish to leave. You did not have to come in the first place, after all. Besides, we are headed in the same direction.”

Further surprises; Shiro was smiling, just a little. McCree himself laughed aloud.

“In for a penny, in for a pound. I’ll drink to that.” It was just tea, but they clinked their glasses nonetheless. After that, they lapsed into silence as they both chowed down on their breakfast. The transition was so smooth it almost passed McCree by; for a second he forgot he was eating food with a near stranger. Granted there were a lot worse and a lot better things one could do with near strangers, but it was the ease of a mundane act that caught him off guard. The lack of fuss.The lack of noise. The suddenly jarring silence. It brought to mind a movie McCree had seen once, rolling on the big screen as they played cards and drank beer the rec room of the Gibraltar base, Ricky Nelson twanging in the background as a woman spoke,

_“That's when you know you've found somebody really special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.”_

* * *

In the end they found a gas station near the highway and thumbed a ride on a transport truck. In reality it was a re-charging station, electric hover vehicles having supplanted gas-powered cars in most parts of the world. But the insides had remained the same with jugs of windshield washer fluid stacked on pallets next to aging candy bars, and cigarettes shelved behind the counter, and the moniker had stuck. Shiro didn’t look like he had ever thumbed a ride anywhere in his life he looked so uncomfortable about the whole thing. Jesse spent the morning leaning against the wall, smoking and thinking about the prostitutes that used to hang around the truck top on Route 66. What was the term they used? Lot lizards. He hoped upon hope Shiro could get the proper message across. He remembered how quickly the man moved, the bow and the yakuza driver, and wondered what he would do to anyone who insisted on solicitation. McCree half hoped somebody would, if only he could get to watch Shiro in action again. Good old sweet talking won the day however, and a seat in the front of a furniture delivery truck with a broken heater. As soon as they hit the road Shiro curled up against the door with his nose stuffed into the collar of his coat, trying to catch some shuteye.

“Here,” said McCree, unwrapping his serape from his shoulders. Shiro’s brow wrinkled and Jesse was sure his nose did too. “C’mon,” he said. “It’s warm and uh, relatively clean.” Shiro took it from him, examining the red wool. “It wraps,” McCree explained, taking it and tossing it around Shiro’s shoulders. He brow scrunched further, but he soon accepted the extra warmth and drifted off to sleep. McCree tried to do the same, slouching in his seat and pulling his hat low over his eyes. He desperately wanted to put his feet up on the dash. It was too cramped for his long legs. The day mozied on in a blur of snow covered fields under grey skies. Men and women on the warbled love songs in Chinese between frantic radio ads. After a while the driver, a wiry, middle aged woman, turned to McCree and asked him something in Chinese. McCree peered out from under his hat and shook his head, _no comprende_. 

“Boyfriend?” asked the driver, nodding at Shiro. McCree snorted.

“Now why would you go and ask a think like that?”

The truck driver grinned. Her teeth were yellow, the curl of her mouth mischievous.

“You gave him your sweater.”

They hit the border town by early evening. McCree and Shiro had dozed on and off all afternoon, the truck only stopping to grab lunch before pulling back on to the endless black highway. McCree was almost loathe to wake Shiro, whose head now rested on his shoulder. When he was awake he always looked worried and a little angry. Asleep his features softened and it became easier to realize just how handsome he was.Though the guy was obviously going through so much shit McCree almost felt guilty for being attracted to him. The last thing he needed was a big oaf on the run like himself lusting after him. Then of course Shiro would go and do something adorable like blush when the truck rumbled to a stop and he woke and realized where his head had been resting.

“My apologies.”

“Nah, don’t worry,” said McCree. “It was good to see you getting some proper shut-eye.” Shiro had indeed slept for hours and it was true, there were no nightmares this time. He swung himself out of the truck and Jesse handed him his bag; it was much heavier than he expected, and it surprised him. Shiro snatched it out of his hands as quick as he could. They thanked the driver, who winked much too obviously for McCree’s liking. She left them there just off the highway, Shiro still with his nose buried in Jesse’s serape.

“I forgot to ask,” said Shiro, “but how were you planning on crossing the border? Where you going to hide on the train?”

McCree scratched his beard. 

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.” That had been his plan exactly, in fact. He was hoping once they made it to the border they could hop back on for a bit.

“Hmph,” said Shiro, seeming a little grumpy from being woken from his nap. “We should make haste. I need to speak with my contact - in fact I was supposed to meet with them some time ago.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, bringing up an email with a map of the town. Out of curiosity Jesse pulled out his own phone. It was dead.

“Come,” Shiro instructed, marching off with no further comment and leaving Jesse with no choice but to follow. The town was busier than he would have expected, packed with the traffic that signalled the end of a workday, people ready to get home and relax as the holiday approached. McCree followed Shiro blindly, unsure of where they were or what they were passing. Dark was setting in quick, hastened by the shadows from the surrounding mountains. With the disappearance of the sun the chill deepened and McCree shivered. They passed street after strange street as neon signs flickered to life, and traffic lights glared out against the sunset clouds. It was surreal, walking with unknown purpose in a world so different from his own. McCree tucked his hands into his coat, pulling in close and feeling the comforting weight of Peacekeeper against his side. Shiro was still wearing his serape, and he realized all of a sudden just how out of place it really did look.

Finally they reached a long, three story building that McCree realized was a motel. Shiro walked with purpose up to the second level, to room 256, and knocked. They waited a couple of seconds, heard the clatter of the chain and a click, and the door was opened by an omnic.

Jesse put his hand in his coat.

“You are late,” said the omnic. “Ise Shiro, I presume?”

“Yes,” replied Shiro. “We spoke online. Many apologies. I … we missed the train and were forced to find an alternative route.

“You did not say there would be two of you,” said the omnic. 

Shit, what was going on here? Who was this contact? Was he going to cross the border with this omnic? Did he know the potentially dangerous shit he was getting into?

_Yakuza. Bow. Casual carjacking._

Maybe he did.

“I did not,” Shiro agreed. “I expected to be alone. I was hoping we could speak about that. May we come inside? It has been a very long day.”

The omnic stood aside, allowing Shiro to pass into the motel and leaving McCree once again with no choice but to follow or be left out in the cold. The room was badly lit and obviously cheap. The carpet was threadbare, the television was washed out, and it smelled of years of greasy take out and illicit indoor smoking. Half a dozen omnics sat or stood, arms crossed, somehow managing to look impatient. They were surrounded by packs and bags and clothing, a collection of sturdy boots and waterproof coats. Camping gear. Were they smugglers? People smugglers? Information carriers? A long time ago in an Overwatch common room Jesse had been shown an old movie called _Johnny Mnemonic_. It was a movie about the past’s view of the future, a neon industrial landscape where jockeys downloaded information and carried it around in their heads. An omnic could carry a thousand times the data the titular Johnny could cram into his head, and they did, ferrying all kinds of information across all kinds of borders, some of it legal, most of it not so much. Jesse knew about omnic owned and run cartels of information smugglers, and he knew that with the right implants a human could do it to.

“Can you believe it?” someone had said, back in that Overwatch common room. “Can you believe they made a movie about this before it was even possible, and then like almost a hundred years later someone actually went and did it?” McCree did believe it. Information could be worth more than drugs and gold. Speaking of drugs, there was the matter that these omnics might be smuggling those, too.

Shiro was speaking to his contact, the omnic who had greeted them at the door. They had pale blue accents on their chin and hands, and a shiny patch on the dome of their head. McCree had seen something about that on TV; they said older omnics often buffed out the logos on their bodies. Like removing a tattoo. Or a brand.

“The deal is the same,” Shiro was saying. “Food and equipment in return for protection, and safety in numbers.”

Shiro’s contact looked to the other omnics in the room.

“We can’t afford another guard,” said a humanoid omnic perched on the bed farthest from the door. They had a feminine sounding voice.

“The money is the same,” said Shiro. “Two for one.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” asked McCree. “As in, what the hell are they supposedly payin’ us for?”

“We hired Mister Ise for protection,” said Shiro’s contact, whom McCree supposed was the leader of the group. “We are on a pilgrimage.”

“A pilgrimage,” McCree repeated, disbelieving.

“To visit the place of learning that was home to Master Mondatta Most of us are non-combatants, as well, and some of us have taken a vow of nonviolence.”

McCree looked to Shiro. “Outside,” he said, indicating the door with a nod of his head.

“Let me guess,” said Shiro, as soon as they were back out in the cold. “Am I sure we can trust them?”

“I can list a hundred reasons right now why this could be bad and go bad fast.”

“I know,” said Shiro. “You think I have not considered the same things? But they are not yakuza and they are not the law, and that right now is what matters. I trust I can look after myself.”

“And you need an alibi, I’m guessin’.”

Shiro stiffened, but he stayed his ground.

“As do you. Or do you dislike omnics that much, hm?”

“I just got a lot of reasons to be wary, is all.”

“I am not your master. I am offering you a means to that which you seek, you may take it or leave it.” A beat past, and then for a second Shiro’s resolve waivered. “I would prefer it if you stayed.”

“You goin’ no matter what eh?”

“And I know what I am doing.”

Guess that answered that, then. Besides, Shiro was still right about the alibi. Jesse relented.

“Alright. Besides, if shit hits the fan I would hate to think I left you on your own.”

Shiro shook his head. “You think too highly of me, then.”

They returned to the confines of the motel room, where the omnics had gathered in a small circle to discuss the matter among themselves. Shiro and McCree hung back politely until one of the omnics - not the leader, but a more typical yellow and silver model with kanji stamped on their breastplate - raised his head and declared,

“We have decided that we will accept your terms, but we have one condition of our own.” Shiro nodded. “We have no idea of the skill of your companion. No do we have the funds for weapons. You will have to acquire arms on your own, and we ask you to prove Mister McCree will not be a liability.”

“Well, I got the weapon part covered,” said McCree, pulling Peacekeeper from her holster underneath his coat. The omnics as a group recoiled in surprise and, McCree was kind of please to see, a little fear. “Now,” he said, “just show me something I can shoot.”

Lucky for them there was an empty space behind the motel, an undeveloped gravel parking lot adjacent to the train tracks housing a couple of garbage bins and an assortment of dead weeds. One of the omnics found a few empty cans and lined them up on the rim of a bin, maybe thirty feet away. They returned to gather with Shiro and the rest of the omnics safely behind McCree.

“You serious?” said McCree. “This is it?” None of the omniics said anything. McCree might actually have started to buy the whole pacifism thing.

“Alrighty then.” McCree shrugged, drew Peacekeeper, took a second to aim. Them he dropped the gun to his side. “Hang on a sec,” he said, leaning over so he could peer down the tracks. “Yeah, there’s a train coming. Give her a sec.”

Everyone waited. A heartbeat passed, then a second, and a few more. The sound of the train grew steadily louder, heralding it’s the inevitable rising approach of the beast. The sound grew to a roar and crashed over the parking lot, the great whine of the electromagnets and a whoosh of air. All eyes fixed on McCree as he turned and, using the sound of the train to cover that of his revolver, took out all four cans in four smooth shots, unhurried shots. Slow enough to be calm, quick enough to be cool. McCree grinned. He was pleased to see that Shiro looked impressed.

“Any of you have a good arm?” he asked. There was a murmur of general confusion. “Can any of you throw well?” McCree reiterated. More confusion, but the lead omnic stepped forward.

“Good,” said McCree. “Grab a can, step over there, and huck her as high as you can.”

The omnic obliged, tossing an empty mountain Dew can in a high arc over the gravel and the snow. With a single shot, McCree knocked the can out of the air before it had a chance to begin its descent toward the ground, spun Peacekeeper elegantly around his finger and slotted her back in her holster. The crowd remained disappointingly silent.

“Convinced?” asked McCree.

“Yes,” replied the lead omnic, “we are.” Convinced but not reassured, it sounded like. “If you still wish to join us, we leave first thing in the morning.”

“Great,” said McCree. “Now we just need to get Mister Prepared here,” he jerked his thumb at Shiro, “a hat or something and we’re good to go.”

Shiro glowered, but he was still wearing the serape so it was hard for him to argue. They split with the omnics, and although there wasn’t much left open at that hour they managed to wrangle a hat, scarf, some warm looking gloves and even a sleeping bag for McCree. McCree didn’t mind kicking it outdoors, but he’d almost never spent the night out in this kind of cold, and he wasn’t much looking forward to it, though beggars can’t be choosers, he supposed. He also picked up some beef jerky and instant coffee to try and make up for it, but he didn’t know how much good it would do. Dinner was takeout - again - this time greasy pepper beef eaten in the motel room. Shrio sighed.

“Whatcha’ thinkin’?”

“It has been too long since I had a fresh vegetable.”

McCree snorted. “Overrated anyway.” He couldn’t even remember his last time he himself had one. Afterwards they took turns to shower and shave - McCree could hide a few days of growth in his overall scruffiness, but on Shiro the extra was really starting to show. Jesse was also hoping he could snoop in Shiro’s bag while he showered, but he took it with him into the bathroom and locked the door.

“You sure you’re going to be able to sleep okay?” asked McCree after they were clean and clean cut. Jesse was already stripped down to nothing but his jeans, perched on the side of the bed, hunting through his bag for his phone charger. “You slept most of the day.” Shiro in his long johns and undershirt pushed wet strands of hair back from his eyes. Fuck if he didn’t look good with his hair down. Jesse could also finally get a good look at his tattoo in it’s almost full glory and damn, was that not good looking too. That was no gang logo like McCree had sported once upon a time, that was a piece of art. Shiro’s whole torso was a piece of art. McCree caught himself licking his lips thinking about the tail of the dragon curled atop a perfectly sculpted pectoral and disappeared beneath his collar. Jesse wanted to ask about the story behind that tattoo, but Shiro hadn’t spoken much since dinner and McCree doubted he was in the mood for sharing stories about his days as a yakuza. Plus he’d asked Shiro about his legs earlier, when he’d taken off his snow boots and McCree finally saw the prosthetics underneath. In response to McCree’s question Shiro had just shrugged and said nothing happened, they are just enhancements, the kind you pay good money for, rather than having them thrust upon you. McCree asked if he regretted it. Shiro simply replied that he did not have that option.

“Probably not,” Shiro replied, closing the curtains. Shiro already had the room booked for the night, but as for McCree there wasn’t much cash left after their little spending spree, and not many options with the holiday so close at hand.

“Where do you plan on sleeping?” he asked.

“Well,” McCree replied, “I got a fancy new sleeping bag, was thinkin' of breakin’ her in.”

“You are not thinking of sleeping outdoors!” Shiro balked.

“Ah, I was hoping for the floor? Unless perhaps yer willin’ to share?”

For a moment time was frozen; Shiro standing hair down in and in his undershirt, chest rising and falling under the tight fabric. His eyes flicked a couple of times up and down Jesse’s body and he wet his lips once, a quick flick of a pink tongue and Jesse felt his pulse quicken. But Shiro looked away, his cheeks turning pink.

“Eh, don’t sweat it,” said McCree. “I could use one of the pillows from the bed though, if you can spare it.” Shiro looked embarrassed.

“Of course,” he said, “of course.” Jesse lay the sleeping bag out while Shiro crawled under the covers.

“Turn off the light when you are finished,” he said.

“Yeah I just - you got a phone charger on you?”

“I have an iPhone. You did not think to purchase one?”

“I didn’t think I’d forgotten ‘er.” McCree tossed his phone in his bag and reached up to turn off the light. His eyes lingered again on Shiro.

“Night night.”

Shiro huffed another of his little laughs.

“Good night.”

McCree slept in fits and starts. Ideally, always, he would like to get a good, long, full night’s sleep, but he felt like he was leaving for a mission and unprepared at that, and he always got wound up before a mission. Every little thing wanted to jerk him from his sleep. The train (funny how it never seemed to roar like that when you were on it), the other hotel guests talking a little too loudly in the hall, Shiro rising and making quickly for the washroom, shutting the door behind him tight. The yellow bar of light underneath the door lingered in Jesse’s consciousness, making it difficult for him to relax and get back to sleep. He dozed a bit, who knew how long, but when he woke again he knew it was longer than anyone usually spent in the bathroom in the middle of the night, even though Shiro was obviously still in there and that bar of light was still stinging his eyes.

Then he heard a sob.

Jesse was awake now. He sat up and held still, listening. Muffled, yeah, but there it was. Jesse peeled himself from the sleeping bag and padded over to the bathroom door. He knocked.

“Shiro?” he called softly. No response. “Shiro, friend, are you all right?”

“I will be fine,” Shiro replied, his voice hoarse.

 _As if_ , thought Jesse.

“Do you need the washroom?” Shiro asked.

Jesse didn’t reply, he just grabbed the door and opened it. If the poor guy was put out on the toilet tough luck, Jesse had seen worse. Could always claim he was tired and didn’t hear. But Shiro wasn’t on the toilet. He was on the floor, between the toilet and the sink, legs crossed, eyes wet and red rimmed. They paused like that for a moment; Shiro on the floor, his shirt balled in his hands being used to muffle his cries, and Jesse looming large above him, still holding the door handle. For that moment Shiro looked absolutely pitiful and miserable, and Jesse felt his heart break. Then Shiro’s expression flicked to anger, all the emotion pulling back in behind his frown. Shiro stood, not bothering to wipe his eyes.

“I would appreciate some privacy,” he growled.

“Yeah,” said Jesse, a little stunned. “Sorry I was just -”

“Worried, yes, but there is no need, thank you.” Shiro pushed on the door and shut it solidly in McCree’s face. McCree hovered for a moment, listening to the sounds of Shrio running the tap He realized there was not a lot more he could do, that anything else at the moment would only exacerbate the situation. He imagined himself saying, _“You can talk to me if you wanna”_ , he almost opened his mouth and said it, but he could also imagine Shiro’s curt, angry _“No, thank you.”_ or _“Leave me be.”_

“You gonna be okay for tomorrow?” he called instead.

“Yes,” replied Shiro, like he would be saying anything else.

“Well ah, let me know if there’s anythin’ I can do.” Another empty statement, not that McCree wouldn’t help if he could, but that he didn’t truly expect Shiro to take him up on the offer. McCree returned to his sleeping bag, troubled and a little hurt. He realized he had not known Shiro long, that he was not privileged to the other man’s troubles so yes, technically he had been impeding on Shiro’s privacy. But he had a right to care, right? And something else had caught his eye, besides. Shiro had a short, thick scar low on his belly, previously hidden by his undershirt. It wasn’t the kind of scar a lot of people had because it was not the kind of injury they always recovered from. McCree knew a stab wound when he saw one, clean, precise, and sure. What did he do with this information? It shouldn’t be McCree’s business to do anything, really.

But he had a right to care, right?

McCree resolved then and there to get Shiro to his brother, to get it through to him that whatever had happened, the guilt was clearly eating Shiro alive.


	3. And the Road Goes On Forever

* * *

Shiro was far from talkative the next morning. He was gone when Jesse woke up, and for a moment McCree was disappointed and worried he’d finally been ditched. But Shiro’s bag was still there, neatly packed. He waited for him outside with the omnics, sitting on the front steps of the hotel and smoking a cigarette. Shiro returned with warm tea and white rice, supposedly breakfast. He handed some to Jesse and ate his without a word.

“Would you object to eating on the move?” asked the lead omnic. McCree looked to Shiro, who shouldered his backpack without a word.

“Guess that’s a yes,” said McCree with a shrug.

They were going to walk the whole way. That was the deal. Thankfully the monastery wasn’t far from the border, but it was still a three day hike through a mountain pass, and there was plenty of snow at the higher altitudes. Shiro took the lead, still avoiding Jesse. So McCree amused himself by getting to know the omnics that were now, it seemed, under his protection. There were six in all, mostly humanoid, accompanied by a lumbering OR-14 who carried most of their gear. Their spokesomnic, the blue model with the buffed head, was named Mir, and had once been part of a trio of media relations omnics owned by Volskya Industries. “Like a trained monkey owned by an organ grinder,” is how they put it. There was also Bravo 24, former coast guard, Rosie, once a household servant, Goro and Kazuma, part of the Japanese police forces short lived omnic officer program, and Marvin, who had been custom built for the shooting of a television show and then scrapped when it failed to make enough money. He had a voice like a cow lowing.

“Little did they know,” said Marvin, “the show would go on to be a cult classic. So I get to sit and watch while all my coworkers become famous and travel all over the world while I wile away my precious days in a dump.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” whispered Goro. “They made him like that. Depressive. He always sees the worst in things. He actually had a lot of freedom once the show was over. Rosie had never even been outside.”

“I don’t just sound depressed, I am depressed,” Marvin interjected. “There’s a very large difference, thank you very much.”

Goro shrugged.

“So you’re hopin’ the omnics in Nepal will what, help you make peace with yourself?” asked McCree.

“Not really,” said Marvin. “But I’ve been told it’s a better alternative to murdering my creators.”

McCree balked. Mir coughed loudly - or rather, made the sound of coughing - to interrupt Marvin.

“Marvin, please,” they said.

“What?” said Marvin. “I thought it was a god joke.”

“Well, nobody got it.”

“I got it,” said Rosie.

“Don’t bother,” said Marvin. “All of Mir’s taste has been replaced with good will.”

McCree snorted.

“Jeeze, how did you get landed with this job?” he asked Mir. Something of that statement must have struck a chord in them because Mir stared off into the distance, thinking.

“I’ve got an idea,” they said.

“Idea does not answer my question.”

“I’ll tell you my story. But in return, you have to tell me all of yours.” McCree realized that Mir was addressing the omnics more than he was addressing him. Marvin groaned.

“I’ll take silence, thanks.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Kazuma. “A good way to pass the time, anyway. We have days ahead of us.”

“All the better to save our breath, then,” said Marvin. The he sighed. “Ah but that’s right, we do not have any.”

McCree looked ahead to Shiro but Shiro said nothing at all, just waited for them to keep moving again. They did, Mir launching into their story as the group walked.

“Mir means peace in Russian. I always thought that was ironic. My owners made weapons, but they tried to make Peace the face of their company. I did not feel like a peacemaker. I felt like a facade.

My function probably sounds more complicated than it felt to me - after all, it is what I was designed to do. I analyzed the net - news, politics, individual comments and reactions - broke it all down into points of data, and from there I determined how to handle the company’s media relations. If anything good ro bad was to reach the public from Volskaya Industries, it was the job of myself and the two other members of my team to frame it and present it in the best way possible to preserve the face of the company. They chose omnics to do this for two reasons. One, to show off the company’s technical expertise, and two because we were, at the time, generally seen as unflappable and hard to rile up, unless the topic in question was of course omnic rights. I was programmed to always be calm, coherent, and never defensive. I took death - say our rockets and bombs kill hundreds - and made it sound good - Volskaya profits are up, meaning they can open hundreds of new jobs.

“Did any of you perhaps hear of the incident in Urbansk?” Mir was answered by a round of muttering and nods. “For those who perhaps do not know the details, approximately 20 years ago there was an explosion at a mining facility owned by Volskaya. The drills hit a pocket of methane and, well, fourty-five miners died. Now, normally if there was such a risk of gas efforts would have been made to send in omnics, who don’t breath, or remote controlled drones. But what the public did not know was that all available units were deployed dealing with a similar problem over two hundred miles away. Rather than take the necessary and legal precautions the company chose to proceed.They knew all along that this might happen. In order to draw attention away from the company I filed a lawsuit against the manufacturer of the equipment used to detect pockets of methane. News outlets focused on potentially faulty equipment and the danger to miners worldwide, causing stops in production for everyone who did not know the truth. Volskaya profited, quietly paid off their fine, and that was that.”

The mine stoppages - Jesse did remember that. He remembered sitting in the rec room with Moe and snickering because they thought they knew the world had bigger problems. He remembered the UN pressuring Overwatch to step in and quell the riots. He wasn’t supposed to know that, but he overheard anyway.

_“It costs thousands of dollars every time we ship out,”_ said Reyes. _“They can pay you to wave your guns but they can’t set up a relief fund?”_ Jesse never caught Morrison’s reply - Ana caught him snooping and dragged him away.

“But in the end,” said Mir, “the mines reopen and the public forgets. The incident that most people probably remember are the Lifelikes.”

Lifelikes. Humanoid omnics that looked human; fake skin, fake hair, warm breath. Could pass for a human to almost anyone who wasn’t looking. And, thanks to the omnic crisis, very, very illegal. Not only were they ballistically good for infiltration, they made sure people were afraid knowing their neighbour or their police officer might be an omnic in disguise. A fair number had been lynched at the start of the crisis, as well as a few folks who turned out not to be omnics at all. Since the crisis, lifelikes had more or less fallen off the radar of anyone who didn’t deal with omnics professionally, or was paranoid.

“Volskaya makes weapons,” said Mir. “And lifelikes are very good weapons. Why train an assassin when you can program one. Why train a body when you can buy one that was already stronger and faster?”

From up ahead, Shiro let out a displeased hmph.

“There are many who would pay good money, and Volskaya decided they needed a piece of the pie, as the saying goes. So they built the lifelikes, despite international law. The fines would only be the cost of doing business. And they programmed the lifelikes to kill. And when one of them decided that they had had enough of being a pawn for a corporation, that is exactly what they did. This is public information. You know this is why Volskaya had been barred from ever manufacturing omnics again. This is because of me. Because I decided that I had had enough. You see, I noticed a trend in my work- that human lives were valued over those of omnics. Always. Talk about the omnic losses, the equipment malfunctions, and the human life becomes a brave sacrifice. I should have said - i was supposed to say - that the lifelike scientists died in a tragic accident. I decided instead to report on the tragedy of being built only to kill.”

Mir paused for a beat.

“It was perhaps selfish. I acted rashly, in anger. I could have done more research. Dug up a better argument. Argued that the lifelike should be taken to safety. Instead they became a martyr.”

Jesse remembered this too, but only vaguely. It was buried in the chaos of his memories around the fall of Overwatch. Overwatch was in fact the reason Volskaya probably didn’t get shut down. There was too much going on for a proper international reprimand to take place; the erasure of not one but two influential organizations would have been too _destabilizing_ as he heard one pundit put it. He remembers sitting in a bar, watching the pundit in question talk on TV, tossing back cheap whiskey and griping because he had bigger problems.

“The courts wanted to place me in protective custody,” Mir continued, “but I did not have the rights of a citizen. I was property. Another piece of faulty equipment. Volskaya would rather I be destroyed. I had to be confiscated with the rest of the computers. I had to turn copies of my memory over to the courts to be scrutinized without knowing what they might find. And it was all, it seems, for naught, as Volskaya was allowed to continue turning a profit and does so to this day. Meanwhile there is very little asylum for an omnic with a price on their head, who has no citizenship and has lost their usefulness. I would have been ripped into scrap on the streets of St. Petersburg had Mondatta not extended a hand offering sanctuary.”

At the mention of Mondatta’s name all the other omnics looked to Mir or perked up, save for Marvin who muttered under his breath about childish fantasies.

“Suddenly instead of doing what I must I was a free omnic with my own life to live. I chose to make up for my past mistakes and lead others to sanctuary, especially those who seek tranquility or the path to atonement.”

Most omnics, including Mir, did not have the ability to swivel their optical sensors and give someone the side eye, but McCree swore that is exactly what Mir did, looking directly at Shiro. McCree wondered if Mir knew something about the man that he didn’t.

“Are you done monologuing by any chance?” asked Marvin. “I need the quiet and the sublimity of the mountains to validate my despair.”

“So if this is your regular gig,” asked McCree, ignoring the omnic, “why do you need us?”

“The pilgrimage is not part of my ‘usual gig’,” they admitted. “But even though Mondatta has passed, that does not mean his work can be left in limbo. There must always be a route available for those who desire peace.”

* * *

Time passed. The sun rose higher in the sky, but it was still too weak to drive away the winter chill. McCree’s coat was warm, but every time he thought about unzipping it a little breeze would kick up and pick like cold needles at the exposed skin of his face. There had been many days of his life McCree had bemoaned the New Mexico heat, but now he missed the kiss of the sun on his cheek, and her ever present warmth felt so far away.

Just after the sun reached its zenith, Shiro fell back from the front of the pack and spoke to McCree for the first time that day.

“We will reach the border by evening.”

Of course it was all about business and he was still being evasive as shit. He had a point, however. McCree scratched his beard, thinking.

“We passin’ any truck stops? Gas stations? Truck depots?” In response, Shiro pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping away quickly and expertly.

“There is a road a mile to the west. A truck stop to the south along it. Are you going to hitch another ride?”

McCree winked. “Somethin’ like that. A mile you say? I better get movin’.”

“There is a well marked pass beyond the border. We will meet you at the trailhead, unless you plan on abandoning us.”

“Now I’m wounded,” said McCree. “After all we been through, you think you’re gonna get rid of me that easy?”

Shiro humphed. It was his favourite sound to make.

“I should dream of it.”

“I’ll miss ya too, darlin’.”

“Do not.”

“See ya on the other side,” McCree sang, making an abrupt right and disappearing into the woods. The omnics stared after him, unsure of what was going on.

“He is scouting ahead,” Shiro lied, continuing to forge on.

“He ditching us?” asked Bravo.

“If he is,” said Kazuma, “he left all of his stuff.”

McCree had hopped borders before, more times than he remembered thanks to his days in Blackwatch. Couldn’t go flashing his Overwatch ID when he was undercover now. Though he always knew that if he did get caught Reyes would come and bail him out. Give him the ass kicking of a lifetime, yes, but bail him out nonetheless. Today all he could do was climb into the back of an unlocked truck and pray they didn’t get caught in an inspection.

_Meanwhile, a mile down the road Hanzo Shimada wondered if maybe they should be the ones ditching the cowboy, before it was too late. It was bad enough that he was already at his wits end with the prospect of coming face to face with Genji again, now easy as you please this chatty American had decided he was going to be Hanzo’s (or rather, Shiro’s) partner in crime. And that was the other part of the problem; Ise Shiro was an angry ex gang member. A killer, sure, but somebody like Jesse McCree, somebody he found sympathy in. Hanzo Shimada was a poor excuse for clan leader, a kin-killer, irredeemable. Jesse liked Shiro. He wouldn’t like Hanzo. He made being Shiro (and who knows who Ise Shiro really was other than a name on a stolen ID) so much nicer to be. Someone who, for a little while at least, could have a friend who would see the best in him. Plus, all in all, it just seemed silly to part ways when they were headed in the same direction. Hanzo had suspicions about that. Is your friend an omnic? Something like that. Hanzo mulled over the english phrasing. He knew McCree could be speaking metaphorically, be intentionally veiling the truth. Or he could very well mean that the man he was visiting was a machine as well as human, as Genji now was._

_But that would be too much of a coincidence - headed for the same place, but also to see the same man? Perhaps if the person was well known maybe. But so far from Hanamura, from anywhere the Shimada name was indeed known, the coincidence seemed just too much._

_In truth, Hanzo told himself, there hadn’t been any good time to do away with McCree. With the clan on his tail they had needed to keep on the move, and besides McCree had proven handy to have around. A marriage of convenience. When they reached the Shambali temple Hanzo could be rid of him, and forget that he’d shown that kind of vulnerability around, well, basically anyone. As comforting as his presence had somehow become, Jesse McCree was for Ise Shiro. He was something Shimada Hanzo just could not have._

Jesse McCree rendezvoused with the group at the trailhead as promised. He tipped his hat in greeting as they approached.

“Dare I ask?” asked Shiro. McCree only grinned. 

“Now now darlin’, that would go spoilin’ the magic.”

“We better not have border guards on our asses,” griped Bravo 24.

“Or dogs,” Kazuma chimed in. “I do not like dogs.”

“We should continue moving,” Mir urged. “We have only an hour or so until we begin to lose daylight.”

“Why’d you opt for human guards anyway?” asked McCree. “Seein’ as they have to rest and eat and all. Only sounds like we’re slowin’ you down.”

Behind them, Kazuma’s four thick legs drove drifts in the snow, too heavy to stand atop it.

“Regrettably,” said Mir, “credibility. People tend to assume a group of omnics alone are up to something.” From almost a mile away, a train whistle sounded higher up in the pass. The late afternoon light was already beginning to turn orange, and it twinkled off the train’s long silver body.

“Besides,” Mir continued, “Bravo is the only one of us who is equipped with night vision sensors. And it would be much too treacherous for Marvin and Kazuma to travel in the dark. We would have been forced to wait out the night either way.”

Night, as it turned out, was shockingly beautiful. So far from civilization the stars could still come out in abundance. It reminded McCree of the deserts of New Mexico, and he felt a twinge of homesickness in his chest. If all went well with Genji, he wouldn’t be seeing those deserts for a while. Bravo 24 and Goro helped them set up the tent, and afterwards there wasn’t much to do except hunker around the campfire and make instant noodles and tea. Kazuma sat across from them, their legs folded primly beneath their body, a sort of 4-legged seiza. They were watching the men unblinkingly as they ate.

“Ya’ need something?” asked McCree.

“No no!” said Kazuma. “I am sorry. It is just - your friend reminds me of someone I used to be acquainted with.”

Shiro froze.

“An’ who would that be?” asked McCree, sounding casual as ever. Kazuma used to be an officer; did they know something about Shiro’s past?

“A woman named Sato Fuyumi. She helped us solve a murder. You look something like her. You hold your chopsticks the same. Actually, she also mentioned once that she had a son in Overwatch.”

“Coincidence,” said Shiro. “You know how common the name Sato is.”

“I never knew a Sato,” admitted McCree. “I’m more interested in this murder mystery,” said McCree. “Miss Sato sounds like an interesting woman. Was she an officer too?”

Kazuma shook their head.

“No! That’s the strangest part. She was retired I think, and she had never worked as an investigator and still she knew so much!”

“What happened?” asked McCree, settling himself in. It sounded like this was gonna be good.

“Yeah,” said Rosie, wandering over. “Tell us your sob stories.”

Kazuma looked to Goro, who just sort of shrugged.

“We were stationed in a very quiet prefecture,” said Kazuma.

“A very boring prefecture,” said Goro.

“Don’t say that! It was nice.”

“Nothing changed. Ever. Every day was the same and the people always said the same thing. It was like talking to characters in a video game. Same shit all the time.”

If Kazuma could have rolled their eyes, they would have.

“Anyway, it didn’t strike us as odd at the time, but we heard people talk. Most of them wondered why the government would spend all that money sending two state of the art police omnics to a place like that.”

“You just think it’s weird because there was no action. I think it was obvious. They stationed us there precisely because there no action. Nothing happened ergo nothing could go wrong.”

“That was until the coroner was murdered,” said Kazuma, giggling. “Ironic, no?”

“Ironic does not equate to funny,” Goro argued. McCree covered his smile by shoving some noodles in his mouth. He thought it was funny.

“They set us to watch over the morgue until someone could be sent in from the next town. And who lets themselves in in the dead of night-”

“3:07 am according to my chronological archives.”

“In the dead of night, as I said, but the otherwise unassuming Sato Fuyumi.”

“We should have arrested her. Even if she wasn’t connected to the crime she was breaking and entering. But she found several flaws in the mortician’s initial examination -”

“And she had an alibi.”

“And she seemed willing and capable of conducting the investigation, so we talked about it, and we made a call.”

“We concluded that the chances of the murderer coming to justice were much better if an investigation began without delay.”

“It was a bit beyond our training, to be honest. In most cases we were just supposed to de-escalate and apprehend the perpetrator. But in times of crisis our programming is very …”

“Blunt,” said Goro.

“Direct,” said Kazuma.”

“Utilitarian in the classic sense.”

“Whatever serves the greatest percentage, whomever has the greatest chance of survival, that is the action we are supposed to take. If Fuyumi could find proof of the killer, then we could arrest them without delay and save more lives.”

“The problem however was that until anything could be proven unequivocally, there was nothing to contradict the official statement.”

“Which was that the coroner had been strangled.”

“By someone with two very strong metal hands.”

“Probably an omnic.”

“Now, that is not also to say that the official statement had nothing to back it up. The hand our Mister McCree could have produced a very similar wound, but it would not have left behind traces of the isotope used in our power cells.”

“The catch here,” said Goro, “is Kazuma and I were the only omnics living in town.”

Goro fell silent, leaving only the crackling of the campfire and the mountain breeze. McCree poked at the fire, stirring up a cloud of sparks. Goro was sort of looking at his hands, trying to avoid eye contact with the others.

“The fuck did your dumb ass do?” asked Rosie.

“Like I said,” said Goro, “the official statement was the only one that provided unequivocal proof. And the only person who was able to affirm Kazuma’s alibi was Miss Fuyumi.”

He looked and sounded very ashamed. Mir has joined them while Goro and Kazuma spoke, perched attentively with an arm draped over their knee.

“The other officers, the human officers, talked about it often. They were afraid; they all thought they would be next somehow. Only I knew that Kazuma and Miss Fuyumi were working to contradict the official story. I had to do something.”

“I do not blame him,” said Kazuma. “Taking us into custody was not the right thing, but it may not have been the wrong thing either. He was only doing what he thought would benefit the town the most.”

“If I had turned in Kazuma they would have been decommissioned.Wiped. Scrapped. Miss Fuyumi said we were like siblings. I almost killed someone who was my family and worse the real killer almost got away.”

At the sound of these words Shiro visibly stiffened, and his hands clenched, nails scraping the rough cotton of his pants.

“Who was the real killer anyway?” asked McCree. “Was it an omnic?””

“Not even. It was a man named Takahashi Hideo. He had cybernetic enhancements, and worked for a family out of Hanamura that had access to the isotope. The found strong traces of it all over his hotel room, more than an omnic could have left.”

It suddenly appeared as if Shiro had had enough of this story for he stood, almost knocking over the remains of McCree’s dinner and declared that he was tired and heading to bed.

“What’s got his panties in a twist?” Rosie griped.

McCree said nothing, rescuing the remainder of his instant noodles before they froze solid and thinking about what Shiro had said to him behind the wheel of the stolen van.

“You know what you never did say,” said Rosie, “was why the hell this Fuyumi lady even cared.”

Goro shrugged a stuccato omnic’s shrug; up - down, no fluidity at all.

“To be honest, she was very nosy. Always gossiping, always interested in other people’s business.”

“What, you never noticed?” asked Kazuma.

“Noticed what?”

“Fuyumi and the coroner - they were very similar looking women. Fuyumi also moved shortly after Takahashi was arrested.”

“What are you getting at, please.”

“Fuyumi was in witness protection. Takahashi was probably sent to kill her.”

* * *

That night Shiro wasn’t sleeping again, que sorpresa. McCree didn’t think it was for lack of comfort - the tent the omnics had secured was a miracle of modern heat retention technology. A couple of people could get real cozy in here … cozy enough to take off their coats, at least. Shiro had been lying quietly but still obviously awake when McCree excused himself after Kazuma’s story, but since then his breathing never evened out and he kept turning over in his sleeping bag. Eventually as before he got up, and left the tent. Jesse sighed. He was done letting this slide.

Jesse threw open his sleeping bag and winced in the chilly air. As he pulled on his boots he noticed Shiro’s unattended bag. He had the opportunity. He could take a quick peek inside.

_Later_ , McCree decided. He didn’t want to leave Shiro out in the cold. He tossed on his coat and boots and stamped out into the snow. Shiro was hunched on a rock some feet away, shoulders hunched against the cold. Jesse plopped down next to him without bothering to announce himself or ask permission. One or two of the omnics looked over to them, but they didn’t seem to care what the two humans were up to. Above them through the sparse trees, the stars twinkled sharp and distant and cold.

“This deal with your brother,” said Jesse. “Going to make amends and all. It’s got you real messed up, huh.”

No response.

“So spill then. Share. Get it off your chest.”

Still naught.

“Alright,” said Jesse. “Then how’s about we swap stories. Just you and I. I’ll go first.” Jesse fished a cigarillo from his coat, taking the time to light it an inhale deeply before continuing.

“I’d been in Overwatch for … four years? Five? Ish. Anyway I was twenty one, and in those years they never had me run a mission once anywhere near New Mexico. Anywhere in the south for that matter. I don’t know what changes, mayne my psych eval finally came back as stable or somethin’.” Jesse took a drag on his cigarillo. “Anyway half a decade goes by and suddenly I’m back in the land of my forefathers where some clever fucker has been running omnic drug mules. Not your regular smartass kid either. They had this whole racket where they’d pay locals - who would shoot anything with two legs and a processor anyway, dead serious, even a toy I seen ‘em do it tho that might’ve been more of a class thing. Anyway. They’d pay folks to hogtie omnics, bring ‘em in and then the drug guys’d strip ‘em down, gut them and reprogram them. Hollow them out so there was a place to store the goods, take out everything in their heads they didn’t need to get from one place to another and just, set em free. The omnics would walk for days across the desert and over the border, no need for water or rest or any of those other petty human things. Those poor souls are the reason they started requirin’ omnics to have passports to get over the border. They wanted you to think it was some kinda patriotic citizenship thing, when really what they wanted was a way to stop omnics who didn't have a passport and get at the drugs.” Jesse waved the hand holding his cigarillo, smoke curling in the chilly air. “Thing was, they left enough in the omnics to fight back if anyone bothered them. And sometimes people did. And sometimes they got killed.” Another drag. “Enter Overwatch, with who knows how many decades of experiences omnic killing under their belts. They know how to track ‘em and how to stop ‘em in their tracks.” He chuckled at his own joke. “So we’re there, out in the desert for days on end teaching cops and border patrols how they can find these zombified rust buckets.” He shot a cautious glance to the group of omnice still gathered around the fire. “No offence meant, but that’s really what they turned them into.”

“I have … few strong feelings regarding omnics,” said Shiro. “The family only really cared if they got in the way of our business.” Ah, so McCree was making some progress. “They were only ever a sticking point for the older generation,” continued Shiro. “Still, what you describe sounds rather unpleasant.”

“Yeah, no kiddin,” said McCree. “So Overwatch is all over the place; New Mexico, Arizona, Sonora. And it’s working. They’re catching them. So the guys selling the drugs, they change things ups a bit. They start sending some omnics out as bait, and they send guys to keep an eye on ‘em.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Shiro interjected.

“I’m tellin’ the story,” McCree argued. “Haven’t you ever told a story before? You need dramatic tension.” For real though, Shiro looked like what he really needed was a hug. “Anyway,” McCree continued, “I’m telling you all this because it tells you what I was doing there.”

Shiro’s expression betrays nothing, but he said, “Go on.”

“There was a girl named Catarina,” said McCree. “We were the same age in Deadlock. We learned to shoot together. We weren’t exactly best friends, but we worked on a lot of jobs together. We would always try an’ prove we were the better shot outta the two of us.”

“She was your rival.”

“What is this, an anime? We were on the same side though, ‘til Overwatch scooped me up and I left that life behind.” McCree took a good pull from his cigarillo, partly for dramatics, partly to give him pause and help him find the right words. “She was the one who had the bright idea to put an omnic chassis on remote control. And damn, we fell for it. Hook, line and lead sinker. She got Conohan right through the throat. Put a bullet in Mohammed’s arm.”

_She had them pinned. Conohan (or her body, anyway), Mohammed sitting in a pool of his own blood as it gathered in the dust, and Reyes, close enough that his shotguns were an annoyance, but not close enough for them to be a real threat. And then there was Jesse McCree, bringing up the rear, drawn by the sound of gunfire. Catarina wolf whistled when she saw him._

__

__

_“Jesse!” she called. “Jesse Goddamn McCree, look at you! You grew up finally.” Catarina had done something stupid then, and stood up from her cover so she could address McCree directly._

__

__

_“Deadlock still had a place for a bright boy like you! You’re done with these goody two shoes, right?” She grinned, cocking her head toward Reyes and the others. Then she reached to her belt and unclipped, of all fucking things, a grenade._

__

__

_“What do you say we blow this popsicle stand?”_

_McCree wanted to say no. He wanted to keep her talking, to try and bring her in. But before he could open his mouth, the pin was between her teeth, and she was pulling as her arm wound back. In Catarina’s mind , there was no way that grenade wasn’t going to fly._

“And long story short,” said McCree. “She was about to lob a grenade at the rest of my unit, so I shot her before she could. And yeah, I guess it was the logical choice. But shit Shiro, most every day of life as a stupid kid, every meal I ate, every shit rookie job Deadlock had me run, Catarina had been there. And I wiped her out.” Like snuffing out his past.

Shiro was listening, but he wasn’t looking at McCree. He was contemplating his boots like they held the meaning to life, the universe, and everything. 

“I guess that’s not my whole sordid past,” said McCree. “But it is one part I feel pretty shit about.” He raised the cigarillo to his lips.

“I tried to kill my brother,” said Shiro.

Well fuck.

“What did he do?” asked McCree.

“Nothing, except not want to be a criminal.”

“You were close?”

“Somewhat.”

“But he’s alive though, yeah?”

“Lucky for me, yes.”

“And he wants to kiss and make up.”

“Make up yes. Kiss, not so much.”

McCree laughed. “You did get lucky then. You’ve got a way to make amends. Get a fresh start. You can say sorry. That’s good.” McCree finished his cigarillo, stomping the end into the snow. “Reminds me of a friend of mine, actually. His brother fucked him up real bad. More mechanical parts than human parts now.” He wiggled the fingers of his prosthetic hand. “I don’t think Genji’s ever talk to his brother again, though. I don’t know if he knows if the guy is even alive. Way he talked about him though, his brother must have been a really pussy piece of shit who only did what the bosses told him. Sounded like the worst asshole in the world.” 

Shiro’s hands dug into the fabric of his coat.

“Indeed,” he said. “He sounds deplorable.”

“Yeah,” said McCree. “Though, I’ve been puttin’ thought into to it. Even I think I’ve done some deplorable shit sometimes. So I like to think people can change. But they have to make an effort.”

Shiro looked like he wanted to say something, but he changed his mind and looked at his boots again instead. 

“Come on,” said McCree, putting a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “You need to get some shut eye. You want the serape again?” he teased. “That seemed to work pretty well.”

“No thank you,” Shiro replied. He stood so McCree hand slipped off, and made a beeline for the tent. McCree followed, chuckling to himself. As he was about to enter, Mir appeared beside him.

“I overheard some of your story,” they said.

Jesse tensed. “Oh yeah?”

“You’ve killed omnics.”

“I’ve killed human beings too.”

“Is it true what you said, about Omnic citizenship in the United States?”

“‘S the truth as far as I know it.”

Mir honestly appeared distressed by this information. “Many of us saw it as … an important milestone. A step toward being recognized as, as you put it, autonomous human beings. And you claim it was to all to deter drug trafficking.”

Jesse shrugged. “I guess that’s how history works, right?”Jesse returned to the tent, leaving the omnic and their philosophical quandaries out in the snow. Shiro had already dug himself down into his sleeping bag, so Jesse dropped the serape over him like a blanket. He received no movement nor word of thanks, but Shiro also made no effort to throw it off, so he figured he had done the right thing.


	4. Not Gonna Let Them Catch Me, No

* * *

McCree woke just after dawn to the distant shriek of another train whistle. Shiro too had just been woken and rediscovered the serape over his sleeping bag. He tossed it at McCree with a glare of annoyance, but McCree only chuckled. Shiro had slept soundly underneath it for the rest of the night. They broke their fast and then their camp, and Mir tsked at the half burned litter in the remains of the fire, sighing about environmental impact. McCree winced inwardly, pulling his serape around to hide the fact that he had dropped one of his flashbangs the day before.

The second day was going to be the hardest Mir told them, because it involved the most climbing. Early into the trek Shiro and Bravo 24 disappeared to scout ahead of the group. Shiro had his bow out again, holding it like it was natural, like it was no more foreign to him than his own arm. Jesse had to admit, it made him look really cool. And maybe a little hot. He slogged behind with the other omnics, helping Kazuma and Marvin with his short little legs through the snow. It was slow going; the air grew thinner and colder as they climbed, and McCree’s arm ached where metal met flesh. Shiro checked in periodically, once asking if Jesse knew how to skin a rabbit, but returned an hour later empty handed and disappointed. 

“Cheer up,” said Jesse, “they don’t taste that great anyway.”

Bravo 24 however did not return after some time. He made one quick check in in the morning, and then vanished. Mir didn’t seem to know whether they should be worried or not. Animals, they said, wouldn’t bother an omnic. If snow had slid down the mountain they would have heard it or seen signs. And Shiro reported no sign of any other humans.

“Yeah,” said Rosie angrily, “but we only have your word to take for it.”

“And do I have any reason to lie?” Shiro retorted.

“I dunno,” said Rosie, “how much are they payin’ ya’?”

“Folks,” McCree interjected, but he went ignored.

“ _You_ are my employers,” Shiro pointed out. “Believe what you will, but the truth remains that I am not lying to you about this.”

McCree watched Marvin up ahead stumble in the snow, then pull himself clumsily up onto a rock so he could peer into the valley below.

“I think you should all see this,” he said. Nobody was paying attention. Rosie looked like she was ready to square up with Shiro.

“Lying about this?” she asked. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

McCree put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. The sudden noise startled everyone except Marvin, who seemed incapable of any physical expression that wasn’t misery.

“What did you say Marvin?” McCree asked. 

“Nothing,” said Marvin, “since no-one seems interested in listening -”

“Marvin!” Mir barked. Goro, thankfully, ignored all the drama and ran over to Marvin to see what was going on.

“The hell is that?” he said, peering down the slope. Then, turning to the group, “Come take a look at this.”

Everyone crowded to the edge of the slope to get a look at what Marvin and Goro were so confused by. Below them lay the train tracks, and along them moved a little silver figure. The irises on Goro and Kazuma’s eyes whirred and clicked as they activated their telescopic lenses.

“It’s Bravo,” Kazuma declared.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Unrolling .. something.”

If Mir had eyeballs they would have rolled them. They attacked one of the packs hanging off Kazuma’s flank, digging past the instant noodles and beef jerky and emerging with a pair of cheap binoculars. Mir put them to their eyes and peered down at the tracks.

“I have no idea what the fuck he’s doing,” they declared. Jesse held out a hand wordlessly and was handed the binoculars. He looked down at the tracks and proceeded to swear a blue streak.

“Holy mother Mary on a tortilla that’s fucking dynamite!” he said at last.

“He’s been carrying dynamite?” asked Goro, flabbergasted. “How did he get it over the border?”

“Lead lined chest cavity,” said Jesse. “Seen it before.” He handed the binoculars back to Mir.

“We gotta get down there.”

“It will take far too long,” Shiro argued.

“Perhaps,” Kazuma agreed. “Can either of you ride a horse?”

“Yes,” Shiro replied.

“Been a mighty long while,” said Jesse. “Why do you ask?”

Kazuma indicated their back.

“Hop on.”

They moved quickly, Shiro wrapping his arms around Kazuma’s neck and Jesse wrapping his arms around Shiro. He expected the other man to stiffen and pull away, but he merely accepted Jesse’s weight like their comfortable silences.

The decline in the earth toward the train tracks was not stupendously steep, but it was long. It would have made, Jesse mused, for some absolutely magnificent sledding. Kazuma wasn’t a sled - too heavy for that - but once they got going they were bounding down the slope, letting their momentum blast them right through the powdery snow. Mir followed just behind, faster and steadier than the humans would have been if they careened on two legs down the snowy slope. The cold rush of wind snatched Jesse’s breath away, and when he managed to wrangle it again he whooped in delight, embracing the feel of free fall every time Kazuma’s feet left the ground. He grinned madly, grabbing his hat and waving it in the air like a rodeo cowboy. Shiro’s face on the other hand showed grim stoicism much more befitting the situation, one arm locked tightly around Kazuma’s solid form, the other clutching the straps of his bag like it meant more than life itself. As they neared the base of the hill Kazuma locke their legs and skidded to a halt, throwing up drifts of snow. Shiro’s pack began to slide off their flank, causing him to let go and lunge after it before it could fall. Jesse however suddenly lost his anchor and _did_ fall, letting out a loud “oof” and sending up a final puff of white snow. 

“Aw darlin’,” he groaned, sitting up and shaking the snow off his hat, “I thought we were havin’ a moment.”

All the commotion did succeed in catching the attention of Bravo 24, who paused in his curious handywork.

“Bravo!” called Mir, jogging to a halt beside Kazuma and their human passengers. “Bravo, what are you doing?”

Bravo stared at them for a moment, then placed the spool on the ground.

“Nothing,” he replied innocently. It was one of the most blatant fucking lies McCree had ever heard.

“Bravo, we are not stupid,” said Mir. “Tell us what is going on, and maybe we can talk about it.”

Bravo put his hands in his pockets, keeping cool and casual.

“What do you want to talk about? What do you see here that talking can fix?”

“McCree,” whispered Shiro, not looking away from the omnic, “do you see what I see?”

“Yeah,” replied McCree. “Either that ain’t Bravo, or it ain’t the Bravo we know.” The omnic they had been travelling with had wide, lamp like eyes that glowed a calm, unobtrusive blue. Instead of blue however his eyes currently showed a pair of stylized purple skulls.

“I know you’re angry,” Mir continued. “That’s why you came with us. To talk it out. To find some peace.”

From the far end of the valley came the sound of a jet engine, a mag train on the rails echoing over the rock and snow. Bravo pulled a hand from his pocket, his thumb over the button of a small remote.

“I changed my mind.”

The words had barely left his mouth when there came a whistle and a bang, the discharge of a revolver and the swish of an arrow as it flew through the air. Both struck Bravo’s hand, sending sparks flying and leaving the omnic reeling with an arrow stuck in his hand.

“ _Hijo de puta!_ ” he swore, which was interesting because he had never spoken a lick of spanish before that very moment.

“Careful what you say about my mother,” McCree drawled. Bravo reached into his coat. McCree raised his gun, Shiro his bow.

“Wait!” cried Mir. McCree and Shiro waited. Bravo did not. His hand emerged from his coat holding, of all things, one of McCree’s flashbangs.

“Shit!” cried McCree, hand flying to the empty space on his belt. Too late; the world went white.

Things happened quickly after that. Bravo lunged for the spool, snapping off the fuse so it could be lit by hand. McCree was the first to recover from the flash bang, or the first to regain his wits anyway. He fired, but still disoriented the shot went wide and only grazed Bravo’s skull. Bravo flung the spool at him in retaliation with significantly better aim, but somehow Shiro was there with his bow and the spool cracked him across the temple rather than McCree. Blood flew and Shiro crumpled, not down yet but Bravo was already advancing, snapping the arrow in his hand and wielding the splintered composite shaft like a knife. Shiro couldn’t see with blood running into his eye, so McCree did the only logical thing and stuck his arm in the way. The resulting _ting_ and Bravo’s look of surprise were completely interrupted by Kazima barreling into him with their full weight and throwing him off the humans.

Not far away at all the train sped into sight.

Bravo rolled to his feet, facing strong, sturdy legged Kazuma between him and his objective.

And the train grew ever closer.

There was a moment of pause, of brief hesitation, then Bravo threw himself at the tracks.

But he was not in time to beat the train.

The resulting crunch was awful, Mir’s despondent cry even more so. The wind kicked up by the train struck the party, buffeting their bodies and churning snow into their eyes. For a moment the world was nothing but windy, cold, and once again, white. And then it was gone.

Jesse blinked. Bravo’s upper half was lying nearby, his legs scattered over a half mile of track. His eyes were still glowing.

“Bravo!” cried Mir again, dropping to his knees next to his companion.

“There is no Bravo,” said Bravo. “There is only Sombra.”

“Sombra? Who is Sombra?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Bravo replied, cracking and cackling. He laughed as his voice faded with the lights in his eyes, a grating electronic whine that dropped in and out. “ _Qui est Soomm-braaa…_ ”

The noise of the train faded into the distance, leaving them only with silence.

Finally, McCree cleared his throat.

“Alright. Kaz, did you ever have training in bomb disposal?”

Kazuma nodded.

“Great. Go see what can be done about that dynamite. Don’t touch it if you don’t have to. Train didn’t stop, probably means its automatic. It’ll send a report and the company will send someone to investigate proper. Mir, take Bravo. Get everything you can ‘cause we can’t leave him here. And Shiro, let me take a look at your head.”

“My head will be fine,” Shiro insisted, despite the blood oozing from his temple. He pulled his bow around his chest and held out his hands expectantly. “Let me see your hand.

“Pff, what, you forget?” said McCree. He pulled off his glove and wiggled the fingers of his prosthetic. There was, very literally, barely a scratch.

“Yup, you forgot which one it was,” McCree laughed. “Seriously though, look at me.” Shiro was somewhat dishevelled, all flyaway hairs, red cheeks from the cold, and blood running down the line of his jaw. Jesse reached out and gently nudged Shiro’s chin so he could get a better look at the state of his eyes. They were a rich dark brown that caught the light like sweet molasses, keen and clear and - oh yeah, showed, uh, no visible signs of a concussion.

“Eyes are fine,” McCree reported. _Mighty fine_ , he thought to himself. He leaned around to look at the cut. “Head looks to be more blood than actual damage. Here,” he finally took his hand off Shiro’s chin and fished around in his coat pockets until he found a wad of clean paper napkins. “Use these for now. Once we’re back up at the trail we’ll get the first aid kit an’ get you cleaned up proper.”

At the top of the hill Rosie, Goro and Marvin greeted them with shocked stares.

“You fuckers,” growled Rosie, but Goro took her arm and Mir held up a hand for her to stop.

“It is not their fault.”

“What _happened?_ ” asked Goro.

“Bravo was … hacked,” said Mir. “By someone named Sombra.”

“Honestly,” said McCree digging through their bags for the first aid kit, “it didn’t happen out here in the middle of nowhere. My guess is he was a sleeper controlled by Sombra from the beginning. You may never have known the real Bravo. There may never have been a real Bravo 24.” His hands emerged from the bags with a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and some gauze.

“Alright friend, siddown. We gotta get you patched up and be outta here before the spooks arrive.”

“You also want to take a guess as to why they did it?” asked Mir. They sounded irritated, and tired. Emotionally drained. Jesse shrugged. He wet some gauze and started on Shiro, who didn’t even wince from the sting of the alcohol.

“Opportunity,” said McCree. “Bomb a train, make it look like omnic extremists either to cause shit or cover their own tracks.” He ripped off some tape and used it inexpertly to attach a gauze pad to Shiro’s temple. The shaved sides of his head were soft and funny under Jesse’s fingers. He withdrew his hand quickly. “We’re so near Shambali, my guess would be on the former. There. Not pretty, but she’ll do.” Shiro touched the bandage on his head.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was just ever so slightly rough.

“Alright,” said Mir, “you all heard the man. Lets move out.”

The little group resumed their march somewhat reluctantly, peeling away from the spot overlooking the tracks in one’s and two’s. Mir - without consulting anyone - carried what remained of Bravo 24 on his back. Shiro, at Jesse’s insistence, stuck back with the group. Rosie tried very, very hard not to have her back to anyone. Hardly a word was spoken, though McCree wondered what there really was to say. All of a sudden, any omnic there could be a victim of the mysterious Sombra’s hacking. The afternoon drifted on, grey clouds growing fat and heavy over the mountains, and before long it began to snow. It reminded McCree of a New Years he had spent some years ago snowed into a cabin in the Finnish wilderness, and the movie Reyes put on as the white night closed in around them. _“Nobody trusts anybody now,”_ the man on screen had said. _“And we are all very tired.”_

* * *

Well, McCree didn’t know if omnics could get tired. But the rest remained the same. As they trekked Mir fell back to walk next to McCree, watching his steps intently.

“Is there any way to tell?” they asked.

“If anyone else has been hacked?”

Mir nodded.

“Not from here,” said McCree. “Not unless you notice anythin’ unusual, or have some fancy-dancy diagnostic equipment.”

Mir still didn’t look at him. They clenched their fists as they walked, probably thinking something like, _How do I know it’s not me?_

“I took a vow,” they said. “Of non-violence. I thought it meant I could lead by example but today I feel like I just can’t protect anyone.”

 _You definitely lead by example when it comes to sharin’ and carin’,_ thought McCree.

“Nah,” he replied. “I ain’t no therapist, but that’s why you’re headed to Shambali, right? ‘Sides, pickin’ up guns is the easy way out. Chagin’ minds through fear is a cop-out.”

_Revving the engines of their hover bikes, hollering and firing rifles into the air. Tearing up bars on payday and collecting protection money from the end of a gun, even when it wasn’t over due. No one who wasn’t Deadlock looked you in the eye, and that’s what it meant to have respect._

_Reyes sitting across from him in the interrogation room, pinning his gaze._

“Means you respect people for who they are. See the good in them and stuff.”

Mir took a moment to respond.

“You are correct, Mister McCree. A therapist you are not. But I appreciate your sentiment.”

McCree _did_ keep a close eye on the pilgrims for the rest of the day. Goro and Kazuma stuck close together. Marvin ignored everyone. Rosie watched _him_ like an irritated, vengeful hawk, only held back by the proximity of Mir. But, thankfully, no one’s behaviour seemed particularly strange. Either they were all whom they appeared to be, or Sombra whomever they were had been scared off.

Night rolled around. The snow had stopped as the sun set. McCree was thankful; it was hopefully enough to cover their tracks, but at the same time he didn’t relish having to dig himself out of a tent in the middle of the night to take a piss. Shiro was already fanning a small fire, and McCree’s stomach rumbled in anticipation of another meal of instant noodles and beef jerky. But first, however, he had to get a good look at the bandage on Shiro’s head.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Shiro. “It hurts, but I will be fine.”

“Eh, the bandage is soaked through. Anyway, you got this here scratch on account of saving my ass! Least I can do is make sure you’re okay. Not to mention the matter of all that blood on yer pretty face.”

Shiro scowled. He looked like hell with a five o’clock shadow, four hours of sleep behind his eyes and blood on his face. McCree grinned like a fool.

Shiro was right; the wound on his head was all bark and no bite. McCree took the leftover water from dinner, and with a cup of noodles balanced between his knees wiped carefully at the blood dried on Shiro’s temple. The omnic contingent that comprised most of the remaining pilgrimage were talking quietly among themselves on the other side of the fire.

“You really shouldn’t,” Shiro sighed, giving one last token attempt at humility.

“I already told you to stop beating yourself. But if you’re that hard up on it, think of it as payment for you being the one with a sore head and not me.”

Shiro opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind and let McCree do his work. His eyes wandered over the rest of their group, the mountains, and finally landed on his own knees.

“You have been keeping an eye on the omnics?” he asked. His voice was low enough that McCree would be the only one to hear.

“Roger that. I don’t think any of them’re compromised. At the very least Marvin is definitely okay; he started bitchin’ again a couple of hours ago. He’ll wake us if anythin’ happens overnight.” McCree wrung out the handkerchief he was using and fiddled with a packet of fresh gauze. 

“Reckon you’re gonna sleep okay? We hit Shambali tomorrow.” McCree's voice was … more disappointed than he had intended. “Big day.”

“Indeed. I doubt sleep will come easy tonight.”

“Give me your phone,” said McCree.

“I beg pardon?”

“Give me your phone, McCree repeated, holding out his hand. “I’m gonna give you my number.” 

Shiro drew his phone from his pocket, handing it over cautiously. Jesse added himself as “The Dashing Cowboy”, which made Shiro click his tongue and shake his head.

“My friend and I,” said McCree, “if all goes well we’ll be heading back to Overwatch. It’s still kinda hush-hush. Not exactly legal, but there’s a lot of shit going on, and not a lot of people with the experience to stand up against it.” McCree handed back the phone. “You want to make amends, right? Make up for some stuff you done? Come join us if things don’t work out with your brother. Bring that bow a’ yours. Whaddya think?” Jesse was smiling. Shiro was not. He was giving his phone a long, contemplative stare.

“Thank you, Jesse McCree,” he said finally. “For everything. I truly do not deserve half the kindness you have shown me in the past few days.”

_Hanzo clutched his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white, praying McCree would not notice him so desperate. Tomorrow McCree would find out. Tomorrow this pleasant charade would end. Hanzo had his suspicions from the beginning, but he had clung to the idea that the man McCree had set out to meet at Shambali was someone else. That there was someone who did not know and saw him instead, whomever he was, lost to the years in a fog of self hatred and later vengeance. McCree retired to the tent, leaving Hanzo to watch the flames. He wanted the fire to lull him to sleep, but instead he shivered and longed for the warmth of his sleeping bag and that red and gold serape. But he knew it would be too much to ask, too selfish to ask for one last time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Bravo. 
> 
> The original chater 4 has been split up, so y'all get an extra.


	5. Gone By the Point of Caring

* * *

The third day of the pilgrimage dawned bright and frigid. Jesse dragged himself reluctantly from his fancy sleeping bag and pissed hurriedly in the snow behind the camp. He was glad to see all the omnics were still there, even Rosie, the most likely to make a break for it and strike out on her own during the night. Mir must have spoken to her. They were all pretty determined, it seemed, to make this trek. To search for peace or at the very least make it to Shambali and begin the process of healing. Jesse wondered how much of a coincidence it was that the group had run into Shiro. Speaking of, he didn’t look like he was doing so bad. Calmer. Much calmer. The haughty, disconnected air was back. Jesse agreed with Shrio to a breakfast on the road, as long as he got a hot lunch. They would be in the town near the monastery by then, and Jesse, who had never travelled to Nepal before, wondered wistfully if the Nepalese made any kind of barbeque and if it would be possible to get some. Probably not he figured, if he had never heard of it. Maybe Genji would know where they could get some decent grub. He must know that town inside out; Jesse couldn’t imagine anything that would keep the guy cooped up in a monastery for that long. Or had that changed about him too? Even at his worst Genji always carried a measure of rambunctiousness. To Jesse, it was a part of who the man was. He wondered uneasily if he was travelling all this way to meet a whole new person.

To Jesse’s everlasting disappointment there actually wasn’t a whole lot to the town - village more like - near Shambali, much less a proliferation of delicious restaurants.

“Did you wish to stop and eat?” Mir asked. “I know they serve meals at the inn, but as I do not eat I cannot make a proper recommendation."

Jesse shrugged. “We’ll toss a coin. Shiro?”

“I do not particularly feel like eating,” Shiro replied. He’d barely spoken all morning, fixed as he was on their destination. “You stay behind and eat,” Shiro said. “We will go on a head.”

“Nah,” said McCree. “I got your ass this far, I’ll get you to your brother.” He clapped Shiro on the shoulder. Shiro sighed.

“As you wish,” he concluded, leaving Jesse’s hand to drop by his side.

The Shambali monastery was out of sight of the village up a final stony path on the far side of the mountain. It was beautiful, McCree had to admit, the look of the crisp white snow against the red walls. But it felt so … _isolated_. There was something that rubbed McCree the wrong way about coming to peace with the world by staying away from it. At least he faced his problems head on. You know, when they caught up with him.

They said their goodbyes to the remaining omnics within the main courtyard of the monastery. Rosie was curt, Marvin morose, and Kazuma hugged them both at the same time. As they made their goodbyes, Jesse saw Genji poke his head into the courtyard, drawn by the hubbub of their arrival. McCree’s heart swelled at the sight of a friend he had not seen face to face in a very long time.

“Raiden!” he bellowed, pulling out Genji’s old nickname, and the cyborg's head whipped around toward him. He wasn’t wearing his visor, so McCree got to see his face break into a big, warm smile.

“Eastwood!” he cried. They all had nicknames once upon a time. Raiden, Eastwood, Mozart, El Jefe, Scheherazade, Doctor West. Moira had really hated that one.

Genji looked like he was doing well. There was lightness in his steps, he stood straighter and he wasn’t wearing his visor as a matter of course. He swatted Jesse playfully before offering him a hug.

“I’ve been worried! I’ve been trying to message you for three days!”

“Yeah sorry about that. My phone died and then we had to jump off a train a little prematurely.

“We?”

“Yeah, me’n Shiro.” He waved his hand in the direction of the other man. “There isn’t another human living here is there? He’s lookin’ for his-” he noticed Genji’s gaze, wide eyed and amazed. “-brother…” he trailed off. 

“Hanzo!” Genji cried, letting go of Jesse and launching himself across the courtyard toward his brother.

“Well,” said McCree. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

That was Hanzo then. The man Genji had barely spoken about other than to curse, belittle, and ridicule. Practically used the man’s name as a curse, took any opportunity to shit on him. And Jesse had believed him, too, seeing the amount of A-grade shit Genji had gone through. He had not painted a pretty picture. Genji was busy hovering next to Shiro - Hanzo - and talking up a storm.

“Get a load of you! What is with the new look!” he poked the piercing at the bridge of Hanzo’s nose. “Did you get this re-done?”

Hanzo’s fists were clenched at his sides. He was stiff backed and determined. As if he had planned it all along he dropped to his knees in front of Genji, bowing formally, practically prostrating himself in the snow in front of his brother.

“I do not have much to say,” Hanzo declared. “But you said you are willing to forgive me. I am willing to work for your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it. “ Hanzo straightened, sitting back on his heels though not looking up at Genji. “I have no right to ask anything of you but please, do not simply behave as if we have no seen each other in some time.”

“Oh Hanzo,” Genji sighed, reaching down and pulling his brother to his feet. “Why do you always have to be so dramatic?”

* * *

Jesse and Hanzo sat across from one another at a low wooden table in the monastery guest quarters while Genji made tea.Hanzo sat on his knees with his legs folded primly beneath him, while Jesse lounged with one knee in the air, resting his arm atop it and chewing on the last of the beef jerky. Neither of them had hardly said a word. If Jesse were to admit to himself he was reeling, caught between anger at Hanzo for withholding the truth and anger at himself for not putting the pieces together.

The tea Genji made was green and bitter. Raw was how it tasted to McCree, like a vegetable, but at least it was warm.

“So, McCree. I am glad to see you but I am surprised you came all this way. When last we spoke you mentioned Deadlock was on your tail, but you stopped messaging me back and I began to worry. Why didn’t you call Winston or Lena? They could have bailed you out.”

Jesse grumbled. He’d thought about this conversation and imagined it to be private.

“I wanted to talk to you and ah - you sounded real different in your messages. Like you’d changed you know?” He noticed Hanzo look away. He tea was untouched. “But for the better,” McCree continued. “I want to go back. But I don’t wanna go back to Blackwatch.”

“Blackwatch died with Reyes,” said Genji. McCree swirled his tea leaves in his cup, looked to Hanzo, decided to ignore him for the time being, put his cup down and turned to Genji sitting at the head of the table.

“And how is this new Overwatch or whatever supposed to function without it, huh? You know they wouldn’t have been half as good without us skulking about in the shadows. Yeah, I get it, the whole operation’s illegal now-”

“That does not make the whole operation Blackwatch.”

Jesse huffed.

“When I said we needed your expertise, I meant also that you could help us avoid the mistakes of the past,” Genji explained.

“I was under the impression you had already made the decision to return,” said Hanzo. Jesse glared at him.

“Yeah, yer right. I needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth, is all. You really have changed, Genj. Couldn’t really believe it ‘till I seen it.”

Genji beamed.

“My master will be very pleased to hear that. Now go on, drink your tea.”

“Actually,” said Jesse, rising, “I’m gonna go have a chat with Mir before we jet.”

“Oh? See if you can find Lena while you’re at it. My master is showing her around the monastery.”

Jesse tipped his hat. “Will do.”  
And just like that, the brother’s Shimada were alone.

“Well,” Genji remarked. “He’s better off than expected.”

“Indeed,” Hanzo replied.

“You spend like what, the last week together?”

Hanzo nodded.

“Why Ise Shiro?” Hanzo shrugged.

“It was the name on the ID I acquired.”

Genji tuttered, took a sip of his tea.

“How long did it take you to realize you were headed for the same person?”

“Almost immediately. But I could not be a hundred percent sure until the day before yesterday.”

“You could have said something.”

“He mentioned his friend referred to his brother as a ‘real pussy fucker who only did what the bosses told him to’.”

He let the words sink in.

“Ah,” Genji replied. “Yes I … most likely said many things along those lines. I am sorry.”

“Why? You would not be wrong.”

“Well obviously I was or you wouldn’t be here.” He picked up his cup again. “Drink your tea before it gets cold.” Hanzo picked up his cup, cradling the bottom. He stared at it but he didn’t drink.

“What is Blackwatch?” he asked.

“Overwatch black ops division for which McCree and I worked.”

“And what was so bad about it that McCree never wishes to return?”

“McCree and I had differing experiences. I was not mistreated, if that is your worry. However, hm, I think I will let him tell you what happened himself.”

Jesse asked around and caught up with Mir in a room overlooking the cliffside. It was lined with computers, cluttered work tables and a diagnostic chair sprouting a tangle of wires. He realized it was probably the omnic version of an infirmary, a room they used to run repairs on themselves when the need arose. Bravo 24 was arranged on the table closest to the window, one of the monks having already hooked him up to a diagnostics computer. Mir stood by and watched, exuding a pensive air. They looked up as Jesse entered. McCree caught the omnics eye and gestured to the hallway with a nod of his head. Mir obliged.

“Can they revive him?” asked McCree. “Or was the damage too bad.”

“I have little hope,” Mir admitted. “If there is too much damage, it can be hard to say whether the omnic who suffered will be the same that is revived. Often times, it is best to leave what remains inactive. My wish now is that we can learn how this happened without the need to … re engage what remains. Why have you sought me out, McCree? Will you and Genji be leaving soon?”

“I came t’ give you my contact info. There’s a good chance Genji and I will be heading back to work for some people who might be able to help find out what happened to Bravo, if you’re willing to let them take a look.”

“And who would these people be that you are so averse to speaking their name?”

Jesse glanced around quickly, then lowered his voice.

“Overwatch.” Overwatch didn’t have the best reputation with omnics, given their former leadership and tendency not to discriminate in their enemies.

“Look,” Jesse continued. “It’s still hush hush. But if you trust me, and everyone else gives you the runaround, give us a call.”

Mir thought about it a moment, then nodded.

So, McCree thought as he left. He’d done some fucked up shit in his life, but he would never have done something like that to his own brother. You know, if he had a brother. And he certainly wouldn’t lie like a little bitch. Genji acted like his brother had come to make amends, but who the hell starts a journey like that with half baked confessions and lying.

_Now who is saying that?_ said the little voice in his head. _I would say it’s someone who has the yakuza on their ass, someone who didn’t know friend from foe and trusted you anyway._

Jesse had considered giving him the serape. Up until half an hour ago he’s seemed like he needed it more than Jesse did. And it would give him an excuse to see him again, and when he got it back maybe it would smell like him, or something like that.

Dammit.

“Oh my _gosh_ is that Jesse McCree!?”

Jesse was successfully distracted by the cry of a woman’s voice and her subsequent squeal of delight. He barely had time to register a yellow and blue streak before his arms were full of a laughing, grinning Lena Oxton.

“Look at you!” she squealed. “You finally got rid of the last of that baby fat. You look all grown up now!”

“Look at me? Look who’s talkin’ girl, speakin’ of lookin’ like a baby.”

“See now I’m a lady so that’s just a compliment.”

“It would take a miracle to make a lady out of you.”

“Big words, tough cowboy.” Tracer reached out and, lightning quick, snatched the hat from McCree’s head.

“Hey, hey!” McCree argued, trying to take it back. “Them there is fightin’ moves.”

“Just trying to keep an old man on his toes.”

Jesse laughed. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, giving Lena a squeeze.

“Likewise big guy,” she replied, in all sincerity. “And - oh! Have you met Master Zenyatta yet?” She motioned to an omnic hovering - literally - in the doorway behind her. “He’s Genji’s mentor. He was just showing me around.”

“Howdy,” said McCree, taking his hat back so he could tip it an extend a hand. Zenyatta took it in both of his own.

“Eastwood, I presume?”

“McCree, actually,” he chuckled. “Jesse McCree.”

“A genuine pleasure!” Zenyatta replied. “Genji speaks very highly of you.”

“Aw, he’s a flatterer.”

“Perhaps, but I am pleased to know that where we are headed, he will have friends.”

“You comin’ with?” asked McCree, surprised.

“Indeed. Genji believes that with the organization and resources of Overwatch, we can make a great difference, and I am inclined to agree.”

“Did you know he invited his brother?” asked McCree. He turned to Lena. “Did you?”

“I did,” Zenyatta replied. “I was against it, at first. I did not believe Genji was ready to face his past in the flesh. But he … surprised me with his candor.”

“He definitely ain’t the kinda guy to ask permission,” agreed McCree.

“What do you think makes him so sure?” asked Lena. “About his brother, that is.”

“Hanzo apparently cut ties with the rest of their clan,” Zenyatta explained. “Genji saw this as evidence that he was ready to move on.”

“Maybe he took something,” McCree found himself saying. “Something important. He’s mighty protective of that bag of his.” 

“What, Genji?”

“Sh-Hanzo.”

“So he is not only willing, but has proved himself,” Zenyatta mused. “Perhaps they are both further along than we assumed.”

“Yeah,” McCree sighed, “here’s hopin’. Anywho, I guess this means we’re ready to hit the road again? You two have everythin’?” Zenyatta laid a hand on his own chest.

“I am complete as I come.”

“Lena?”

“I’m just here to see the pretty sights any fly the ship.”

“You do not wish to see the monastery?” asked Zenyatta. “You have come so far, after all.”

“To be honest,” said McCree, “I just wanna go wherever I can get some decent grub.”

They reconvened an hour later, having raided Genji’s personal snack stash (the only real food in the monastery) in order to secure McCree something resembling a meal. And thus McCree slurped down yet another cup of instant noodles and thought wistfully of the burger joints back in New Mexico. Sure there was nothing wrong with noodles, but day after day of the instant stuff was wearing on his southern soul, and there wasn’t much out there like a good greasy burger. Hanzo met them out next to the carrier, followed by Genji jogging up a minute later. He and Lena shook hands, and he bowed formally to Zenyatta. Zenyatta, to Genji’s visible surprise, unfolded his legs so he could stand and return the gesture. 

“How do you do that anyway?” McCree asked after the omnic returned to his seated position in the air. “You don’t look like you have a hover unit.”

“Walking is only a distraction,” Zenyatta replied, floating aboard. McCree, none the more informed for asking the question, shook his head and boarded last. He left Zenyatta and the Shimadas in the back in favour of joining Lena in the cockpit. He folded his hands behind his head and rested his feet on the dash, content to give his legs a rest and enjoy the view.

“Alright gents,” Lena chimed, priming the engines and calibrating the GPS. “Please buckle up for takeoff and landing, and in the unlikely event of an accident there are parachutes to you left and right, but please refrain from pulling the ‘chute until you have exited the vehicle, Jesse McCree I am looking at you.”

“Hey come on,” Jesse argued. “You weren’t even IN Overwatch when that happened.”

“We’ll be reaching our destination in approximately ten hours, late evening local time.”

And with that they were in the air, sailing through the peaks of the Himalayas. Lena turned off the comm and leaned back in the pilot’s chair.

“Soooo,” she said. “What do you think of this whole Hanzo thing?”

_I think he’s looks lonely and handsome and sick with regret._

“I … dunno,” Jesse replied. “I came up here with him right? And he didn’t mentioned hardly a damn thing about bein’ Hanzo Shimada. Suddenly I don’t know what he’s tellin’ the truth about. Whadda you think?”

Lena chewed her lip. She had never been as close to Genji as McCree and the other Blackwatch agents back in the day. They had gotten to know each other more in the past few months than they ever had before Geneva. Lena remembered how Genji had been in training; mostly angry and worldless he could channel all his energy into defeating whatever was in front of him. One time he had gotten a little too close for comfort and Lena, in a spur of self defense jammed her elbow into the joint on his chest where metal met flesh and Genji had screamed, howling with a pain Lena didn’t think she could inflict on him there in the practice arena. Pained and frustrated he had hurled his sword across the practice range.

 _“Naze?” he cried angrily. Why?_

_It had startled her, and scared her. Angela had hustled Genji off leaving Lena outside the med bay feeling terrible. That’s where Reyes had found her._

_“Oxton,” he said. “Agent Tracer.” Lena jerked to her feet._

_“Aye sir!”_

_“Do you feel bad about Genji?”_

_Lena tried hard not to look at her shoes._

_“Don’t,” said Reyes. “A) you’re not responsible for what happened to him and B) that was a good move. You saw a weakness and you exploited it. The commander doesn’t need you hesitating when someone is really trying to hurt you. "_

_“Aye sir.”_

_Reyes sighed. “You know his own brother did that to him? This is probably what got him into this mess. Could have ended it a dozen times over but he didn’t because it was his brother.”_

At the time Lena had been worried Genji would be angry with her, being so angry it seemed at everything else. But he’d moved on with barely a second thought, presumably because, as Reyes had so thoughtfully pointed out, in the end she was not the source of Genji’s pain. Hanzo, on the other hand, was.

“Well,” said Lena to McCree, “can you really blame him?”

Jesse stayed up front with Lena chatting until he got antsy from sitting still so long and wandered back to see what the others were up to.

“By the way,” Zenyatta was saying. “Mister McCree mentioned you broke ties with your clan by … stealing something if I am correct? I have been curious about that. Genji has never mentioned any great relics of the Shimada clan, except perhaps the dragons.”

“Whatever’s in that bag I reckon,” said McCree by way of announcing his presence. Hanzo sighed.

“It is a personal gift,” he explained. “I had hoped to present it to Genji in private.” He handed the backpack to his brother.

“What is it?” asked Genji, genuinely curious. “Something of mine? Some of my Gundams or something? But that wouldn’t piss them off.” Genji took the bag and his eyes widened as he felt the weight.

“No!” he cried. “No freaking way!” He put the bag between his feet and tore open the zipper. There, packed between a change of clothes ad dirty socks was a large photo in a heavy gilt frame. A family portrait by the looks of it. The family wore formal, old fashioned clothes; a woman, presumably their mother, was seated in front of younger versions of Hanzo, Genji, and a man who must have been - again, presumably - their father. But instead of standing primly behind her, their father had his arms slung around the shoulders of his boys, a huge grin on his face. Hanzo and Genji had been caught with expressions of surprise and delight. Genji grinned, and Hanzo’s young cheeks blushed pink.

“Excellent!” Genji exclaimed, delighted. He showed the family portrait off to Zenyatta. “I was fourteen? I think? When this was taken. It was as spur of the moment thing; they were taking portraits at the summer festival. No one expected dad to do that. He thought it would be funny to fool around, but our mother liked it so much she insisted we keep this version.”

“You meanin’ to tell me,” sai McCree, “you stole the most awkward and breakable family heirloom you could get your hands on and then carted them across China and over a mountain in a motherfucking backpack?”

“Mother and Genji were close,” said Hanzo, as if that were a sufficient explanation. Which, given that he was trying to make amends with Genji, McCree supposed it was. The kind of grand gesture Genji would appreciate.

Genji looked at the portrait of their father, running his fingers over the frame, enjoying the solid weight of it in his hands. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Hanzo was smiling a little too. It looked good on him.

“Thank you brother,” said Genji. “I mean it.”

“Yes, well,” said Hanzo. “I figured I should finally do something in my life that you could be proud of. I -” he glanced at McCree, “-I wanted to start off again on the right foot. To show that I am on your side.”

 _Make a grand gesture,_ said the little voice inside McCree. Bring him a photo to make it look real so you can infiltrate Overwatch and sell it to the highest bidder?

_Cry yourself to sleep? A grown man? Try and cut your gut open to make it look genuine? That was a hell of a long way to go, even if he HAD planned on meeting you along the way. Of all the things Genji had ever accused his brother of being, a schemer wasn’t one of them._

“Why this though?” Genji asked. Hanzo shrugged.

“I think it is a reminder of father as you remember him. The elders … put words in his mouth. Disrespected his memory. Sometimes I think you are the only person who remembered him as he really was. Can you really blame me?”


	6. You Can Buy a Dream or Two

* * *

McCree blinked and a week had gone by. Once they landed at the old watchpoint in Gibraltar his life was a whirlwind of new and old people, places and routines. Angela Ziegler was there, and Fareeha - Fareeha Amari! - somehow taller than the last time Jesse had seen her, and strong enough to lift him off his feet when she greeted him with a big bear hug. A girl arrived the evening after them, all the way from Korea with a bubblegum pink mech and computer gear worth more than everything McCree currently owned to his name. He helped her unload box after box, thinking forlornly of the single backpack sitting on the desk in his new room. He should ask Winston for an advance, go buy more than a few days worth of underwear and a change of shirts. There were greetings and briefings, protocols to go over, passcodes to set up and assessments to run. Jesse was finally able to witness just how good Hanzo was with his bow, and he watched the brothers Shimada tag team a cluster of training bots with such synergy and grace that is left him feeling angry and jealous. Is that how they were before? Is that how good they could be as a team? How the hell could Hanzo hurt someone he was that close to? Jesse watched Hanzo, lost in the moment as he took down the final bot, then turn to his brother, breathless and victorious, then falter as the reality of the present slipped back in.

He wishes he could go back Jesse realized. He wishes he could take it back.

The first night back at Gibraltar Genji came to McCree to talk. Back in the day their main crash pad was in Geneva and when they stayed in Gibraltar they slept two or three to a room. Without thinking McCree had made a beeline to their old rooms before realizing there was literally no one to kick him out of the more spacious and private officers quarters. He had a desk. McCree likes having a desk. It implied a sense of semi permanency. It was why desks in hotel rooms never made sense to him. Why put a desk with a drawer when a table is all you really need? Regardless, with McCree lying with his hands behind his head and Genji perches across the room it almost felt like old times. Almost. 

“I’ve come to ask you … to take it easy on Hanzo,” said Genji. “He’s made a big decision and an important step coming here.” 

“Yeah yeah,” McCree sighed. 

“I’m serious,” Genji continued. “You saw the people that are after him, it was dangerous for him to travel under his real name. I mean .. all right, he hasn’t told me _every_ detail, not yet, but it seems his name was the only detail he truly outright lied about.”

“I get it,” said McCree. “An’ maybe you are right. But … I’ve seen what he did to ya’. And suddenly you’re okay with that?”

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Eastwood.”

“Well fine then, not okay okay but-”

“At peace with what happened.”

“An’ that’s different than okay?”

“It is.”

“How is that?”

“I have accepted that these things have transpired, that through no action can I change the past, but I can change the future, and I have chosen to move forward with a positive outlook.”

“Those your words or Zenyatta’s?”

Genji sighed through his nose, drumming his fingers on the desk. It made a harsh metal on plastic clicking sound.

“If Reyes had told you to kill me, would you?” he asked finally. McCree balked.

“Hey now, that ain’t even-”

“It is a better comparison than you think. Answer the question. If Reyes had told you I was a threat to the integrity of Overwatch, that to protect the lives of everyone involved I would have to die, would you have killed me?”

Jesse faltered, trapped.

“Look, okay, ten years ago maybe, I mean, we’re good pals but we ain’t exactly brothers. But I know better now-”

“Exactly,” Genji interrupted. Jesse continued to falter, realizing where this was going.

“I get that, but no-one ordered Hanzo to do shit. And like I said I’m not your _brother_. He is.”

“Hence why my fate was his responsibility,” said Genji matter of factly. “There were those in the clan who sought power after the death of our father. They preyed on Hanzo’s better nature, convinced him that for the good of many, I had to go. Hanzo is an honorable man, and he takes responsibility. So he dealt with me, the threat to the clan, on his own.”

Jesse had no thoughtful way to respond to this.

“Fuck,” he concluded.

Genji chuckled in his metallic way. “To be honest, I would have been more offended had Hanzo sent someone else to do the job. But I also do not think he would be here now were he that sort of person.”

Jesse caved.

“Alright,” he agreed. “All right.”

“Super,” said Genji, like they’d just decided where to go eat dinner. He unfolded himself from his perch on the desk. “Hanzo needs people on his side. And I think he really likes you.”

“Hey Genji,” said McCree, as Genji was about to leave. He paused.

“Yes?”

“Do you know if Hanzo ever had a knife wound, say hereabouts?” he asked, indicating the spot on Hanzo’s stomach that bore the scar he glimpsed back at the motel. Genji thought about it, frowning a little.

“No. It’s hard to imagine Hanzo allowing something like that to happen to him. An assassin could never get that close. But then again, it has been a long time.”

“Do ya’ think there’s a chance he … did it to himself?”

“Again, my instinct is to say no, however-”

“Things’ve changed.”

“Hanzo has changed.”

Jesse remembered the days after Geneva; nothing to go back to, nothing to look forward to, wanted by a UN investigations committee and a gang in New Mexico, the only other place he thought of as home. Fifteen years he had been working out of Geneva, and he had finally began to think of it as home just as someone blew the whole place to smithereens. The uncertainty had driven him wild; all that hard work and blood for nothing but condemnation.

 _“He needs people on his side.”_ How much _did_ Genji know about what his brother had been up to? More than he was letting on, Jesse reckoned. He knew that Hanzo had been on his own for some time, and that something big had happened when Hanzo absconded with their father’s urn. Jesse would not be surprised to learn that Genji had been keeping tabs on his brother since before Hanzo split with the clan. Who had been on his side before then? Neither of them had mentioned anyone. There was no co-conspirator when Hanzo had ascended to leadership, when he had taken his brother’s life. Only him.

It occured to Jesse suddenly that Reyes would never have ordered any member of Blackwatch to kill another, because if they’d done something to warrant being killed he would take every measure available to get the job done himself. Reyes would take personal responsibility for a fuck up that bad. Straight from the top, so you’d know what you’d done. There would be no co-conspirator in your death.

* * *

The problem with McCree’s promise to Genji was that he wasn’t clear of where he and Hanzo stood, where to start their conversation now that they had been lifted out of the little world of Shiro and McCree. Not to mention there was a decade’s worth of catching up to do with Fareeha, and Angela, and Reinhardt, and Torb, and Brigitte. Jesse saw her around the base, tinkering with Reinhardt’s armour and working on the base systems and didn’t even know who she was until he asked and Reinhardt laughed and said, “Don’t you remember Brigitte?” Brigitte had grown even more than Fareeha, from a prepubescent teen with bobbed hair to a strong, no nonsense young woman. For the first time since being back Jesse felt a little old, weighed down by the reminder that things would not be as they were. But isn’t that what he wanted? A more hopeful Overwatch that drew in the young and the ambitious and the dreamers instead of the shining bureaucratic veneer propped up by past glories and the gory metallic mess that ended every mission.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Hana, the mecha girl, at dinner the next evening.

“Huh?” said McCree, tuning back into reality. Hana and Lena were regarding him intently. “Nothin’. Just reminiscin’. What were we talking about?”

“Lena was introducing us to her girlfriend,” said Hana, holding up Lena’s phone to show McCree a photo of a pretty red headed woman wrapped in a cozy wool scarf.

“Her name is Emily,” Lena supplied.

“You don’t say,” said McCree, leaning in to get a better look. “Whatever happened to, uh, Rebecca?”

Lena shrugged, trying to brush the question off.

“We broke up not long after Geneva. I think she was only dating me ‘cause I was in Overwatch. And I wasn’t exactly in a great place.”

“Cheers to that,” said McCree, raising his glass. Lena met it with her own while Hana looked on.

“You two are gonna make me regret coming here.”

“Hey, just cause’ we went through a tough time when all our friends and colleagues died don’t mean we’re hopeless.”

“Ah, don’t be so glum,” Lena chided. “Things are gonna be better than they used to be.”

By the end of the week Jesse realized he was going to have to make an actual effort to talk to Hanzo, lest the gap between the two of them was only widened, or fate took their lives in her hands and did something stupid.

As it turned out she acted quicker than Jesse expected.

They were in the training area, Lena and Fareeha and a small pack of ‘bots against the new guys while Athena took notes, filing away combat data for later use. Jesse thought it was unfair, really. There should be tonnes of combat data on him already, he shouldn’t have to be put through this. Though mostly he was thinking like that because they were losing. Hanzo had already fallen behind once and let them get flanked by ‘bots, causing them to loose valuable time untangling themselves while the ladies had already moved on to the next objective. Jesse booked it, trying to make up for the lost seconds while Hanzo shimmied up the wall and took the high ground. Jesse saw Hanzo’s shadow pass overhead in a jump propelled by his artificial legs, then he hit the ventilation pipe, stumbled, and fell hard onto the catwalk below.

“Goddammit,” Jesse growled. The ‘bots would hone in on anyone who was down and take them out of the running in a second. He scrambled up a nearby ladder, took out a nosy bot that had come around the corner, and stalked up to Hanzo.

“What the hell Shimada?”

Hanzo was lifting himself to his feet but his arms, though strong, were shaking.

“I am fine,” he said. “We should continue.”

“Look at me.”

“I said - “

“If yer fine, look at me.”

Hanzo glowered at him, which McCree figured was good enough, and the cowboy cursed himself for not paying more attention at the beginning of the match. Hanzo had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was loose and sticking to the perspiration on his temples, and the hand that gripped his bow bore the unsteady shake of not enough sleep and too much caffeine.

“Fine my ass when was the last time … have you slept since before we reached Shambali?”

Hanzo continued to glare.

“Hanzo-”

“That is none of your business.”

“Oh I’m sorry, we trek across a huge ass country and I listen to your nightmares every night and then join an illegal paramilitary organization together and suddenly your wellbeing is none of my business?”

“Seeing as you only seem to care about Shiro, and Shimada Hanzo is only a liar and a pretender than I would say so, yes.” Hanzo tried to end the conversation by vaulting over the catwalk, but he twisted his ankle on the landing and fell on his ass again. Jesse slid down the ladder. Thankfully, by the sounds of it, Lena and Fareeha were doing a good job holding the attention of the ‘bots.

“Jesus Hanzo, you’re gonna kill yourself.”

“Then so be it.”

“Now that’s a shitty thing to say.”

“If I am no use here, to Genji, what use am I?” Hanzo steadied himself and made to continue the training course, but McCree put himself in the way.

“Hanzo, let’s call it, okay?” he said, a little gentler. “Maybe you should talk to Angela.”

“When we are finished-” said Hanzo, trying to bully his way past McCree. The cowboy stood his ground.

“No, now before you hurt yourself.”

“Remove yourself,” Hanzo growled, forcibly shoving McCree this time. McCree didn’t back off.

“I said,” Hanzo growled again, “get out of my way!” Hanzo tried once more to pass, butting him in the shoulder, and this time McCree latched onto his arm.

“Nothing I say is gonna convince you, is it. Even if I say Genji's right and I’m sorry?”

“What do you think?” Hanzo spat, trying to tug himself away past McCree once more. McCree dug in, not letting him pass.

“I ain’t gonna let you go out there and hurt yourself again. I think Genji’s right. And I’m sorry.” 

Hanzo struck Jesse in the side with a sharp jab to the ribs, right underneath the clasp of his chestplate. Jesse doubled over into it, grasping his side and weezing. But the anger and the indignance, that was good. That’s what Hanzo needed. Stop being angry at yourself. Hanzo came at him, trying to pistol whip Jesse with his bow. When Jesse grabbed it Hanzo twisted, catching McCree’s arm in the bowstring and pulling him in close so he could come in with another jab from the right. Even anxious and sleep deprived Hanzo was a force to be reckoned with, but he was weighed down by his fatigue. Jesse caught on and parried down, knocking the blow into the armour on his belly. He twisted the arm all wrapped up in the bowstring, throwing Hanzo off balance. Jesse followed through, pushing Hanzo the floor of the training ground. Hanzo finally let go of the bow and rolled away. He tried once more to rise, but his arms had given in after that burst of adrenaline and had become jello. Jesse dropped to his knees and caught Hanzo as he was about to fall.

“In answer to your question,” he said. “I think anger don’t do you good on the inside. I know it don’t go just go away like everyone says. You gotta let ‘er out.”

“McCree-”

“Yeah yeah, I know. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Hanzo collapsed in his arms. Jesse hit the comm.

“We need medical!”

“We can see!” Reinhardt replied. “Angela is on her way. What happened?”

“Hanzo took a hit to the head,” he lied.

“Hold your position,” said Reinhardt. “Help vill arrive soon.”

“Will do.” McCree clicked off the comm.

“McCree?” Hanzo groaned.

“Yeah?”

“What the others think can be damned. I am going to kick your ass for this.”

McCree chuckled. “That’s good to hear.”

* * *

In the end, Angela made the executive decision to keep Hanzo in the infirmary overnight for observation. McCree lurked outside the medbay window listening to their muffled conversation, arms crossed, hat low against the setting sun, chewing on an unlit cigar. Angela’s voice travelled back and forth as she busied around the infirmary, her questions accompanied by the click of her heels on the tile, whilst Hanzo’s deep replies remained centered, and still. McCree felt a twinge of guilt for making Angela worry, but he hoped Hanzo would take the opportunity to have a much needed conversation with the good doctor. He made a mental note to do something nice for her later while he shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. He should really go find a light.

“I heard something happened,” said Zenyatta, and McCree nearly dropped dead of a heart attack right then and there on the rock of Gibraltar. The omnic made almost no sound when he travelled, and out here in the winter wind his movements were all but drowned out. He’d floated up while McCree was deep in thought and the man hadn’t noticed him at all. “Thankfully,” Zenyatta continued, “Dr. Zeigler is certain Shimada-san will make a full recovery.”

“Hello to you too,” McCree wheezed, finally just taking the cigar from his mouth. “Hanzo collapsed during training. He just overexerted himself. He needs a good night’s sleep, is all.”

“I believe it may be more than that.”

“You do?”

“What did he fall on to bruise his ribs in such a way?” asked Zenyatta.

Jesse glowered at the omnic.

“You are about to say my humour needs better timing, yes?” said Zenyatta. “Genji says that all the time.”

“Well he ain’t wrong,” Jesse grumbled.

“Nonetheless, you and Shimada-san have not been on good terms since we left the monastery.”

Jesse stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “And what does Genji have to say about that?”

“That you were disappointed that he had withheld his true identity. He also finds it unusual that the both of you would be so offended by someone who by all means should be a relative stranger.”

“Genji has gotten more perceptive, hasn’t he.”

“When it comes to others, most certainly.”

Jesse gave in. He fumbled in the recesses of his pockets, finally pulling out his lighter and holding the flame to the end of the cigar. Inhale. Pause. Close the lighter. Back into his pocket. Remove the cigar. Exhale. Zenyatta waited patiently.

“He didn’t _feel_ like a stranger,” Jesse admitted. “We picked it up so easy, and when he had to run I didn’t even have to ask myself if I should go with him I just did. He was so goddamn sincere about everything after that it near damn broke my poor heart.”

They allowed another pause while Jesse drew on his cigar, and man and omnic looked out over the grey sea.

“You know,” said Zenyatta. “I have recently come to the realization that while I encourage others to acknowledge their emotions, and I have no qualms about them coming to me should they need a sympathetic ear, that I have taken no vows, that I am neither their priest, their confessor, nor their doctor, and so I may repeat what hear as I please.”

Jesse narrowed his eyes.

“An’ what about plain old decency?”

“I did not say I would repeat everything.”

“What do you plan on repeatin’ then?”

“Shimada-san’s words on the topic of our conversation. To quote, ‘I let my guard down. I was too sincere. I was foolish to accept sympathy after what I have done.’ Unquote.”

“Aw christ,” Jesse grumbled.

“If you would like my advice - “

“Which I will remind you I didn’t ask for.”

“Tell him what you told me. Try and get him to do the same for you. Remind yourself that Shimada-san has been down a longer road than the one you witnessed in order to get here. He does not need any more hardships.”

Behind them they heard raised voices emanating from the infirmary. Jesse took a quick peek to confirm that Genji had entered while he was chatting with Zenyatta, and the conversation was escalating.

“Hanzo, please,” Genji begged. “Something happened, something is eating you up and I need to you talk to me, or Angela, or Master, or even McCree, someone.”

Hanzo pulled up the hem of his shirt, presenting Genji with the scar on his torso.

“I tried to destroy myself to the point where they put me in hospital. They said, it’s not your fault, you’re sick. Of course I was sick, I killed my own brother. Nobody walks away from that and is well.” There was a choked edge to his voice. “But it was never like this until we fought,” Hanzo continued. “What I did made me ill, but that guilt does not excuse it. I was convinced to kill my own brother so that my resolve was weakened and the clan could use me to their own ends. Perhaps they were hoping I would succeed in ending our line. But I let them do it, Genji. I let them use me.” Hanzo sounded like he was almost crying now. There is no forgiveness for that kind of weakness.”

“No,” said Genji. “They abused the trust you put in them. They were given a duty and they willfully threw it away. They killed me, but I had people to help me up again. You fought your way out of the grave they dug for you. Let us help you back on your feet.”

“Bullshit,” said Hanzo. “ _I_ killed you. _I_ dealt the final blow. The one that mattered. _I_ made that choice. I do not know what nonsense they filled your head with in that monastery-”

“Rude,” Zenyatta commented.

“- but this is not something that can be forgiven. I will not run, though I do not deserve to be here with you I must honor your desire to make a difference -”

Genji stepped forward and slapped his brother. Jesse winced.

“Remind me to never play chicken with that guy.”

“Fuck you!” Genji cried, shocking his brother into silence. “I will not be the vehicle for your self pity!” 

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta suggested, “this is not for our ears.” McCree ground down on his cigar, tasting the papery dry tobacco. Zenyatta lay a hand on his arm, gently leading him away.

“For fuck’s sake,” Genji went on, “Hanzo, only doing what other people wanted is what got us into this mess. Stop pretending I’m ignorant; I am well aware of the choices you made. And I am willing to move forward. Look, Hanzo,” Genji stepped forward and placed his hands on Hanzo’s arms, “one of the most important things Master said to me was, ‘Do you want to live, Genji, or not?’” Hanzo’s eyes shot up to meet his brother’s, wet with tears, genuinely upset by the implication. “He said you can live or you can self destruct. But you can’t choose in between.” Genji took a deep breath. “He said, ‘There are people who argue that as an omnic, I am not alive. I beg to differ. I have an effect on my environment, and the people around me, and they have an effect on me. Every being in an ecosystem has an impact on that system. We cannot choose to live outside this system and yet hope to still interact with it, because once we touch that delicate web, we have had an impact. But more importantly, _it_ touches _us_.’ So - so what he was saying is you can’t just choose to be a weapon or a vehicle for someone else’s whims. You’re not allowed to walk around pretending like you’re already dead, because as long as you _are_ walking around you have an effect on people, and you can embrace that and make the best of it, but there is no future if you reject it.”

“And what happens if I do?”

“Then you just hurt people. And yourself. And now don’t fucking look at me and just say you deserve to be hurt or some dumb shit, and I know you don’t want to hurt other people because I have been through that. And I realized - I guess I realized I just had to live instead of hiding away and calling myself ugly.”

Hanzo was finally completely silent.

“Anyway,” said Genji. “I don’t know if speeches do anything in real life but i hope you get why I want you here. You don’t even have to go on missions if you don’t want to.”

Hanzo sighed.

“I think I would go stir crazy if I did not.”

Genji coughed up a single metallic, heartfelt bark of laughter.

“Ha! I guess that is a good place to start then. I also, ah, wanted to apologize for McCree’s behaviour. He can run his big mouth sometimes, but most of the time it is … harmless.” 

“Endearing?”

“Sure, if that’s what you think.”

Hanzo crossed his arms and looked away. “I think no such thing. Besides, it is clear I have betrayed his trust.”

“Ani-”

“It is fine, Genji. I have spent too long failing to suffer from the consequences of my actions. I am prepared.”

Genji sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought of the conversation he had with Mir, a quick reconvene back at the monastery. Good to see you, here’s my contact, let us know if overwatch can help with the hacking victim. And oh, by the way, how is my brother? Unlike Jesse, Mir had had an eye out for the elder Shimada, and had hired him online as soon as the opportunity arose.

 _“Rough,”_ was the reply. _“Its good he had McCree with him.”_ Mir had been genuinely surprised to learn Hanzo and McCree had met only days prior.

“What happened with you two anyway?” Genji asked, pulling himself back to the present.

Hanzo shook his head.

“Nothing. Maybe … I thought … its is irrelevant now anyway.”

Genji’s look was one of skeptical disbelief.

“Okay,” he lied. “Get some rest, ani. I’ll come by later with dinner.”

As soon as the infirmary door slid closed Genji whipped out his phone and messaged McCree.

 _Talk to him_ , he demanded, _or I will have to force the issue._ He hit send, angry. On his way to the kitchens Zenyatta caught up with him, coming in from the outdoors.

“I sense disquiet, my pupil.”

Genji grumbled. “Something fucking happened between McCree and my brother. It’s more than just McCree is pissed on behalf of my honor. He knows better than that. McCree looked downright _betrayed_ , and Hanzo is acting like he’s serving his sentence as the betrayer.” Genji stopped walking all of a sudden. He dropped his shoulders and sighed. Zenyatta always did this. Got him talking and made him _realize_ things. Zenyatta himself waited and listened patiently. “Or maybe,” said Genji. “Maybe there was something they _wanted_ to happen and I just got in the way.”

“That is doubtful,” Zenyatta replied. “You are the reason they both set out on their journey, after all.”

“I guess,” said Genji. He was unsure whether that was a good thing. Genji’s phone pinged in his pocket, notifying him of McCree’s reply.

_I have an idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you by our sponsors, the shonen anime school of flirtation. This chapter dedicated to the memory of Zenyatta's best line that had to be cut. May find your time and place.


	7. Memories of Green

* * *

The following evening McCree steeled himself, marched to Hanzo’s room and knocked on the door. Technically there was a door chime but fuck it, Jesse McCree was a knocking kind of guy. Hanzo answered, clad already in pyjama pants, his hair wet.

“So,” said Jesse, before Hanzo could open his mouth and object to anything. “You said you’ve never seen _The Godfather_?”

“No?” Hanzo replied.

“Great,” said Jesse, “come with me.”

“Why are you here?” Hanzo asked. McCree swallowed. Your brother threatened me was only part of the truth, one he hoped Hanzo wouldn’t find out.

“I said I was sorry, right? I want to make it up to you a bit. If I can.” Jesse waited, hoping Hanzo would say something, but he just stood there, waiting for Jesse to continue. “Look-” said Jesse.

“Do-” said Hanzo at the same time. They both stopped.

“You first,” said McCree.

“Please,” said Hanzo. “I insist.”

“If you want me to leave,” said McCree, “you can say so.”

He waited again, wishing Hanzo would say something, do something, even if it was slam the door in his face.

“‘Kay,” he said finally, turning away.

“I do not wish you to leave,” said Hanzo quickly. He reached out and grabbed Jesse’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. It surprised both of them, and once he realized Hanzo withdrew his hand swiftly, folding his arms across his chest. “I thought I was foolish to … to let my guard down around you. I thought getting close to someone was something I could not have. Something I do not deserve. And yet I still tried to keep it for as long as I could. I was selfish, at the expense of your trust. I was content to let you be, to accept the consequences of my actions, and yet now you continue to insist.”

“Goddammit,” Jesse muttered. “There you go doin’ it again.”

“Doing what may I ask?”

“Bein’ all sincere an’ shit. I already said it, apology accepted. You don’t get to play the villain, sorry.” Jesse took a deep breath. “Anyhow, we’re in this together now so I was thinking we could start off again, on the right foot this time. So do you wanna come along and see a movie with me?”

He waited, hoping to move things along without further argument, but Hanzo did continue to argue, saying,

“McCree, I am in my pyjamas.” Technically they were a pair of Genji’s sweats and a t-shirt from a set of fatigues, but they were set aside for sleeping in. McCree looked him up and down.

“Whatever, I mean, it’s not like we’re goin’ to the Ritz.” McCree ignored the fact that he himself had purposefully worn his cleanest pair of jeans. “C’mon.” He waved his arm and to his relief Hanzo followed this time, his metal soles clicking on the tiled floor.

“Weird you and Genji don’t feel barefoot,” McCree commented. “I would feel barefoot.”

Hanzo pondered this for a moment.

“I am sure it would be no trouble to affix a set of spurs to a prosthetic.”

Jesse chucked. “That’s only half the style though! It just wouldn’t be the same without the well worn leather.”

Hanzo looked at his feet.

“My grandfather was a very ‘the shoes make the man’ kind of person. These days, cybernetic enhancements can say the same things shoes said to him.”

Jesse glanced over.

“What do yours say?”

“That I could pay to enhance my body beyond human limits. That I could turn what should have been a detriment into advantage.”

They arrived at the old crew quarters, the two to four beds a room dorms that McCree and Genji would have shared back in their Blackwatch days.

“This,” McCree declared, “is where Mohammed Khan used to bunk.” The room being unoccupied, the door had been left unlocked. The room was dusty, left hastily. Fatigues on the rack. A mug on the bedside table.

“Moe was usually stationed here, but they cycled to Geneva for eval and such.”

“He never had a chance to come back,” Hanzo guessed. Jesse sniffed.

“Hope so. Coulda’ died, coulda’ just been locked out. Base blown, no way to get back and by the time you do the bureaucrats have locked the doors. Haven’t seen him since, either way.” Jesse squatted next to one of three trunks in the room, placed with precision at the foot of the beds. “Moe, dead or alive, was a real film nut. Biggest collection I ever saw, and he’d seen every one of ‘em.” He started fiddling with the lock on the trunk. “Believe it or not he actually had a DVD collection somewhere, but most of the stuff was on a hard drive which I am hoping,” Jesse grunted and sprung the lock, opening the trunk to reveal more clothing, “he left here.”

“And this Mister Khan, did he have what you consider taste?”

Jesse looked over his shoulder and gave Hanzo his patented “Are Ya’ Shittin’ Me” look.

“You insultin’ Moe’s’ taste in film or mine?” Hanzo hmmed, checking the drawers of the bedside tables. In the second was a black hard drive embossed with the Overwatch logo.

“If he expected to return, do you believe Mister Khan would have locked away something he used so frequently?”

“Now there you go killin’ all the mystery.” Their banter was returning as easily as it had started on the train. Was starting afresh even possible? Jesse worried. Was it even a bad thing if it were not?

Hanzo looked around the room.

“Is the whole base like this?”

“Whaddya’ mean?”

“Possessions, equipment left behind with no one to return for them?”

Jesse took off his hat, scratched his hair and then replaced it.

“A good chunk of it, yeah. Someone managed to truck off everything dangerous, or valuable, but I guess that didn’t matter on an individual level. Folks were mad about it, but in hindsight I’m lucky I got out when I did.”

Hanzo hmmed again. He had left the vast majority of his material possessions behind along with the clan. He supposed Zenyatta would be pleased with his asceticism.

“Where have you decided we are going to watch this?”

“Rec room I figured, on the big screen.”

“Unless Miss Song has claimed it.”

“Nah.” Jesse winked. “I asked politely.”

The corner of the rec room contained a semicircle made up of a handful of aged chairs and the singular sought after couch. It was cheap and scratchy but at least the arms were stuffed and not made out of wood. The hard drive did contain an impressive number of films, a veritable treasure trove of cinematic history. It was also incomprehensibly arranged and impossible to navigate. They sat side by side, Jesse with his legs on the coffee table, their backs stiff while Jesse flipped through the listings. The Godfather wasn’t listed under “crime”, or “drama”, or “New York”, or even “based on books” for that matter.

“I give up,” said McCree. “What about, uh,” he scanned the list, “ _Blade Runner_?”

“Have you ever seen it before?” asked Hanzo. Jesse scratched his beard, his other arm slung over the back of the couch behind Hanzo.

“Once, I think, a long time ago. Don’t remember much ‘cept it’s kinda’ funny in retrospect.”

“It is a comedy?”

“No I mean what folks in 1982 thought the future was gonna look like.”

Hanzo just shook his head and leaned over Jesse so he could press play. The film was meandering and colourful, but mournful, a lament. Jesse thought the lead actor was familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on where he’d seen him before. Around the half hour mark McCree wandered to the kitchen and returned with two cold bottles of beer. Hanzo accepted his with thanks. Jesse didn’t drink his right away, instead fiddling with the bottle for a bit, thinking, letting condensation gather on the cold glass under his palms. 

“You’re finding Overwatch okay?” he asked.

“Okay?” Hanzo replied. “Yes. I think it could be pleasant.”

“Pleasant?”

“I look forward to working with the others, and it is good to hear Genji laugh again.” Hanzo fiddled with his beer some more, watching the foam move under the glass as he turned it in his hands.

“You came around while the others seem to be wary of me. Genji has been reluctant to tell those that did not already know about our history.”

“Yeah he came and gave me the talk.”

“I suppose he tried to paint me as the victim of the machinations of our clan and a well meaning, self sacrificing fool.”

Jesse winced inwardly. “That about sums her up, yeah.”

“And what do you think of that story? When I remember our … duel, I cannot recall any thoughts of duty or honor. I only recall anger.”

“You know how I think, else we wouldn’t be here.”

Hanzo chuckled dryly.

“What do the others say?” asked McCree.

“The others say they ‘hope I truly have changed’. But Genji should not have to play peacekeeper on my behalf.”

McCree raised his beer to his lips, thought about it, then sighed.

“Hana, however,” Hanzo continued, “looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Genji better as hell be right or I’ll shoot you down’.”

McCree laughed. “Well, you said it yourself you don’t want to have someone else speakin’ for you. Prove her right then.”

“I am reduced to answering the challenges of a nineteen year old.”

“A nineteen year old war hero.”

They lapsed back into silence, letting the film take over once more. It was much longer than McCree had let on, and intriguing as it was Hanzo began to drift. He’s been in training all day, and now his belly was full of good food and beer, and the couch despite its scratchy misgivings was pretty comfy, and McCree was next to him, radiating warmth. Hanzo closed his eyes. God, did this man ever do a good job at putting him at ease. When was the last time he closed his eyes so readily around anyone else?

“You were right,” said Hanzo after a while, yawning. “The hover cars are very tacky. And they could never fly that high.” 

Jesse looked over to Hanzo curled up on the couch, eyelids drooping. 

“You been sleeping okay too?” Jesse asked

“I manage,” said Hanzo.

He’d been in training all day running on what, probably four hours of rest McCree figured. Through the haze of sleepiness and the sound of the film, Hanzo heard the rustle of fabric but didn’t quite register until he felt the weight of McCree’s serape across his shoulders. It hadn’t been washed, he realized. It still smelled of smoke from their campfires the week before. But it was heavy and warm and Hanzo realized as he drifted he didn’t really care. He wasn’t quite asleep yet, though blearily transfixed by the melancholy tale unfolding on the screen.

“Well,” said Jesse as the credits began to roll, “that was interestin’.”

“Empathy is what makes us human,” murmured Hanzo.

“Hm? You talkin’ about the movie? Yeah, I got that. Rick there didn’t seem to have much in the way of warm feelings, though.” Jesse stretched, beer still in hand. 

“Would a person cease to be human,” Hanzo continued, “if they no longer cared for the consequences of their actions?” 

“Maybe? Why? Why you talkin’ like that?”

“There was a long time,” said Hanzo, “in which I did not care. At the same time, those that are often seen as not human, master Zenyatta, my brother, are capable of great empathy.”

“Genj never stopped being human.”

“He feared it, though.”

Jesse thought of Pris the replicant’s primal scream of rage, her fury at being forced to live a life so short. Genji used to do that, throwing tantrums in the med bay and in training, as if by rage alone he could bend the world, bring his body and his life back to the way it used to be.

“You two talked about this?” he asked. “You and Genji?”

“A bit,” Hanzo admitted. His voice was a little rough. “He said what Master Zenyatta did for him was remind him he remained human despite what his body may look like.”

Hanzo drifted, letting himself be lulled by the music and the flickering light of the television. Jesse brought him back to reality, and escorted Hanzo like a drunkard back to his room. The hour had grown late and the halls were quiet save for the far off hum of the generators

“You proved it to me,” said Jesse quietly as they neared Hanzo’s room. “With your actions. That’s why I came around. I realized you proved it to me back on the train, and after. That you were someone who is willing to turn over a new leaf.”

Hanzo fell into bed and slept soundly still wrapped in the serape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably preaching to the choir but, Blade Runner. If you haven't, watch it. Now.


	8. Hands on Your Hips, Give 'Em a Push

* * *

Thus, little by little, Hanzo let himself be known.

Jesse’s serape was returned to him the next evening at dinner, amid a few raised eyebrows. It had been washed.

“Thank ya’ kindly,” said Jesse, grinning.

“It is only polite,” Hanzo replied, “ to return a borrowed item in a clean state.”

It was nice to have the serape smelling fresh Jesse admitted, but a recognizable stirring under his ribs missed the scent of Hanzo that had been left on it once before. Meanwhile despite Angela’s best efforts, Hanzo still wasn’t taking to sleep very well. He could be heard in the halls or in the practice range late at night. Sometimes the whistle of the kettle in the kitchen would give him away. Sometimes Jesse glimpsed him out on the bluffs talking to Genji, or Zenyatta, and sometimes he glimpsed him out there alone. The first couple of times Jesse let him be, but it reminded him too much of Hanzo in the mountains, hunched over in the cold, biting back his pain. So he joined him out there on the bluffs, wrapped in his serape and the smell of the sea and prattle on about life in Deadlock, and being on the run. It never took long for Hanzo join in and make it a conversation. Often they ended up in the dining room playing cards - Jesse was getting better at two-ten-jack, and Hanzo was as killer at poker as Jesse suspected. He lost a lot of cigarillos and picked up a few extra chores (for lack of something better to bet on) trying to find Hanzo’s tell. In a month he still hadn’t found it. Maybe it was just an excuse to while away the hours together and stay late into the evening with Hanzo. Why else would he agree every time Hanzo suggested another round, another round, until his tea went cold and the cards were soft from being shuffled so often, and Jesse eyelids stuck together, and he still didn’t want to leave. They still used the deck with the missing king of hearts.

The days warmed as they passed, the wind lost its chill and new grass began to grow in between the rocks and the cracks in the concrete. Spring settled over the watchpoint. Hanzo and Jesse finally beat Lena and Fareeha in the training simulation. An some nights, they would commandeer the couch in the rec room and watch movies. They saw _Yojimbo_ and _A Fistfull of Dollars_ , which Hanzo enjoyed more than he expected, and _Blazing Saddles_ , which had Jesse in tears and gave Hanzo a headache. One evening even found Hanzo settled on the couch with Genji, watching horror movies in the dark like they did when they were kids. They chewed popcorn as blood sprayed across the screen and watched raptly like a pair of teenagers. McCree didn’t like the horror movies so much. He wandered in once as a man on screen had his arms ripped off by an alien and watched for ten minutes before muttering something about having seen this one before and giving him the willies. Genji snickered as he left.

“Reyes showed us this one out on a mission one winter. We pranked him real good once we realized how scared he was.”

Missions these days, on the other hand, seemed like they were going to be a lot more boring,

“The long and short of it,” said Winston, their acting leader, “is that we need money.”

“Seriously?” said McCree. “What are we now, Overwatch Private Security?”

“Technically Harold Private Security,” Winston replied. “Who have bought out the old Overwatch base.”

McCree groaned. 

“Trust me,” said Winston. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it makes our activity seem a lot less suspicious.”

“Paper trail,” Jesse groaned. “Paper trail a hundred miles long.”

“And what would it look like if I were signing hundreds of thousands in personal cheques?” Winston rebutted.

“Actually been meanin’ to talk to you about that,” said McCree. “I can’t open a bank account without settin’ off more than a few red flags. So, if you’d be so kind I could use some cash or credit chits.”

“As do I,” Hanzo added, “as security for the time being.”

Winston rolled his eyes and dismissed them, muttering something about running Overwatch and not a goddamn bank. But finally the day came when it was called upon them to do their due.

Winston sat everyone down, the whole team, including Hanzo and Zenyatta. It was all very professional, a powerpoint with charts and everything, a copy sent to everyone’s tablet which of course McCree did not read. Several team members looked a little nervous, including Genji and Angela. Fareeha was downright displeased.

“I am going to state, for the record, I disagree with this,” said Angela.

McCree pulled his phone out under the table and messaged Genji.

_Why does everyone look like theyre going to mutiny._

He watched Genji look at his phone and probably roll his eyes behind that visor.

_Big $ job in Japan_ , Genji replied. Jesse frowned.

_Just cause its Japan doesn’t mean you have to go._

Winston started his spheal, reminding them that Hana’s streaming donations, while highly appreciated, weren’t going to keep the lights on for long, so please remember to turn them off when you’re finished, especially in the kitchen and training grounds and bathrooms.

_We need a translator + someone who knows the area._

_So by Japan then u mean Hanamura._

d(>_･ ) Genji replied. Why wouldn’t a simple yes suffice?

Zen speaks Japanese, McCree countered.

“Now there are a couple of snags,” Winston was saying. “One is time. We have very little intel, but based off previous known patterns of this … organization-” no one missed Winston glance carefully at the Shimada’s, neither of which batted an eye, “-the payload will be shipped off in a matter of days, the faster the better. We won’t be able to afford the time to send a scout. Second, I’m sure you’re all familiar with the name General Takeuchi.”

So that’s where the cash was coming from. Takeuchi was a charismatic soldier who had risen to the status of national hero during the omnic wars; to hear some tell it he had single handed saved the country from destruction by the omnics, or that the Japanese people would all be slaves to the robots if it weren’t for him. A fanciful exaggeration, according to Ana. Overhyped bullcrap, according to Reyes. Takeuchi was from money, though, and he knew how to turn it into more money. Back in the day he had been a significant patron of Overwatch, most likely because it’s founding members had fought in the ‘Wars like him. The catch was the man had never, in the time McCree was with Blackwatch, reexamined his personal distaste for omnics. He had been vocally upset over the extent of the work done to Genji, and Jesse remembered concerted efforts to keep them separate, lest he go on again about Overwatch having “essentially an omnic” under their roof. It also ruled out sending Zenyatta, for obvious reasons.

“Well,” Jesse drawled, “so I guess you want Hanzo to go then? I mean, jus’ because he’s from Hanamura doesn’t mean he knows who Hanzo is, right?.”

Hanzo scoffed. Genji snorted.

“Are you kidding?” said Genji. “No one in Hanamura has money without also having ties to the Shimada clan.”

* * *

They hashed out a basic plan right there in the conference room, then went over the fine details on the plane. Hana, Lena, and Jesse would do the meet and greet, with Hanzo and Genji in their ears to take notes and run translation. They would insist the General sit tight while they run the op, grab the brothers, do some quick recon, grab the payload, return it to Takeuchi, and hopefully stay for dinner if they were invited. Takeuchi had talked a lot with Winston about needing to stay discreet and not being able to use his own men, so they doubted he would be itching to get his hands dirty anyway. Genji was trying to convince his brother to go a little further with his disguise and shave, but luckily Hanzo was holding fast and Jesse didn’t say anything. There was no way a shave was going to hide someone that handsome. Takeuchi had, anyway, met the elder Shimada and his their father on several occasions, mostly local political and business get togethers where half the guests were criminals and the other half were the ignorant rich.

“One half uses the other to launder money and puppet them with cash and political favours,” Genji explained. “It’s willful ignorance. There is no way they don’t know, but there is also not enough money in the world to buy the power to speak out.”

“The clan didn’t take issue with one of their neighbours pumping cash into Overwatch?” asked McCree. Genji shrugged.

“Overwatch stayed out of our business. As long as it did, I don’t think we cared.” He turned to Hanzo. “Does that about sum it up?”

Hanzo hummed in agreement. “I believe his desire was to see Overwatch grow, that if it did decide to make a move on the families, there would be nothing he could do.”

“Pft,” said McCree. “Well, Overwatch did get too big for her britches, only the other guys made a move first.”

Genji sighed.

“Anyhow,” continued McCree, “Just how much money does your family have?”

The brothers looked to one another.

“A lot,” said Genji.

“A lot,” Hanzo agreed.

“You’ll see the castle.”

McCree balked.

“Castle?!”

* * *

A lot of money was right, McCree decided, if the Shimada were the kind of family who rubbed shoulders with this guy. Let it be known that on this day Jesse McCree learned there were ways to be ostentatious without actually being lavish, ie why on God’s grey Earth did someone need so much room in their house, why the hell did one family need so many sparse yet tastefully decorated rooms?

“Is this place a home or an art museum,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Not to your taste?” asked Lena.

“It’s just … hoarding. If you have this much money, may as well open up a museum and let other folks enjoy it.”

The general took them in his office, a much more modern room than the rest of the building with a functional desk and two couches on either side of a long coffee table. There was already tea waiting for them, steaming invitingly.

“Welcome!” General Takeuchi boomed, beaming at the the tree members of Overwatch. Hana bowed formally, with Lena following suit and Jesse waiting until the general had returned the gesture in kind. 

“Thank you for having us,” said Hana in rehearsed Japanese.

“No need for that!” the general replied. “My english has gotten much better over the years. Isn't’ that right, Miss Oxton?” He winked at Lena.

“Very much so!” she replied, adding a little laugh for good measure. The general waved them to the couch.

“Please, sit. Tea?”

Lena and Hana took tea, Jesse declined. His gaze roamed around the room. What did he say had been stolen again? Some piece of art, or heirloom. God forbid he actually noticed that any of those had gone missing, he seemed to own so many. McCree wondered if the couches they sat on were somehow collector antiques themselves. They didn’t smell like it, at least.

“It was a suit of armour,” the general was saying. “However, what I have not yet mentioned to Mister Winston is that we had made some … modifications.”

“Does that decrease the value?” asked Lena.

“On the contrary,” Takeuchi replied, “it increases it greatly!”

He handed the ladies a tablet containing an electronic dossier.

“Is that the armour dad gave him?” asked Genji on the comm.McCree craned over Hana’s head so he could read the dossier and see what was going on.

“The Germans have had technology like it for decades,” said the general. “But theirs is by no means so light, or agile.” Hana’s eyes practically bugged out of her head.

“Whoa!” Jesse craned over to get a look at Hana’s dossier.

“The Germans built a tank,” Takeuchi boasted, “we built a real weapon.” The design was, obviously, inspired by the armour of the crusaders, like the hulking suit that Reinhardt charged around in. “The crusader armour aimed to make the human body do things it could never do. We take man’s natural abilities and enhance them.”

A modified suit of traditional (traditional looking Jesse surmised, probably made of newer materials) Japanese armour, designed to make the wearer faster, stronger, augmenting their body to keep up with an omnic on the battlefield, to surpass any other human being. More flexible in its uses than body modifications, and cheaper, too. Artificial limbs were not uncommon, but there were few people willing to pay for or voluntarily risk replacement of lungs, a heart, or a spine. All of which, incidentally, had been augmented in Genji Shimada. Not to mention it bypassed all the ethical conundrums that came with genetic manipulation, plus if an augmented human died, it would be tasteless to recycle the parts. (Not that it didn’t happen; there was very good money in digging up the graves of the augmented deceased). Jesse whistled, legitimately impressed. Takeuchi, too, seemed genuinely proud of this technological accomplishment. All he had told Winston was that Talon had stolen something from him; Jesse, Lena, Hana and the Shimadas all assumed they would be playing fetch with a piece of art or maybe an artifact. It was Jesse who addressed the elephant in the room.

“So you’re in charge of this? How come the military can’t take her back?”

“I am in charge,” the general affirmed. “However this,” he tapped the data pad, “is a Takeuchi family project. If I asked my friends in the military for help, it would become a military project. Military property.”

Jesse let out a “tch” sound, but Lena and Hana just nodded sagely. Both military, he remembered. Jesse as generally of the opinion that technological advancements should belong to the people, but he had also learned over the years what a lot of people could and would do with tech like this. People like Deadlock, for example, and he would hazard a guess, the Shimada clan. Rich folks making shit only to make themselves richer, that irked him too.

“There’s one more thing,” said Takeuchi. He was quieter now, more subdued. “Shimada Sojiro youngest - he works with you does he not?”

All three members of Overwatch tensed. Lena and Hana both looked to Jesse. Genji was swearing over the comm.

“It is alright,” said General Takeuchi. “I have known from the beginning, as unfortunate as his fate may have been. Who do you think called in Overwatch in the first place?”

“Say yes,” said Genji.

“Yes,” said Jesse. “He’s still with us.”

Takeuchi nodded. “You should let him know, if he even wants to know, his brother left the clan. He made himself an enemy of them, too. But more than that, I believe they were involved with this, and I believe they are in with Talon.”

Genji swore again.

“Thanks,” said Jesse. “He would want to hear about Hanzo.”

“Eh, everyone knows he was soft, and Sojiro was soft on him.”

Jesse cleared his throat loudly. “Anywho, let's talk the logistics of this here operation you have been so kind as to hire us for.”

Jesse lingered after they finished talking, waiting for Lena and Hana to leave before taking the comm out of his ear and turning it off. He was burning with about a decade of curiosity, and there was no way the Shimada needed to hear him nosing into their past.

“I worked with Genji for a while,” he said to Takeuchi. “He was in my division.”

“Black ops,” Takeuchi replied. “I remember.”

“So it was you then,” said Jesse, “who grabbed him and took him to the hospital? Then you called us from there?”

“It was I who contacted Overwatch,” said Takeuchi,” but Fuyumi got him to the doctor’s on time.”

Jesse blinked.

“Fuyumi?”

“Shimada Fuyumi. His mother.”

* * *

Jesse left the general’s office feeling a little ill at ease. He knew Genji was still in contact but he had only ever spoken vaguely about his mother, and Jesse assumed they just weren’t particularly close. But suddenly it appeared as if the woman may have played a larger role in, or perhaps been witness to, the feud between the brothers Shimada. Jesse felt a little like he was doing a puzzle, and someone had handed him a piece he didn’t know he had been missing, and he didn’t quite know yet where it went in the larger picture but he knew it would be important later. For now, his job was retrieving a potentially dangerous weapon from one set of private hands and returning ti to a supposedly more trustworthy set.

“I don’t think our .. client would like to hear you talking like that, “Lena warned.

“What? I’m just pointin’ out how strange it is. We ain’t even takin’ it from people who would do harm to people who would do good; we’re takin’ it to people who are gonna make a quick buck and wipe their hands of it. I mean, I know we need the job ‘n all, but its sorta’ a weird definition of tryin’ to do good and make a change in the world, is all.”

There was silence over the comm.

“No more Tarantino for you,” Genji chided. “You need to go back to watching movies about stagecoach robberies.”

“I think he has a point,” Hanzo chimed in.

“Oh now you finally agree with me on somethin’?”

“Can we get back to the mission please, blokes?”

“Yeah yeah,” Jesse grumbled. “That don’t mean the argument is over”

Hanzo had lead them to a block of warehouses just off the highway, pointing out which were owned by the Shimada, i.e. which might be used to store a stolen piece of tech before it was ready to transport. The team had spread themselves up and down the block to watch the traffic coming and going. It was a crapsack rainy winter’s day.

And so they waited.

And waited.

“Maybe they switched up?” Genji suggested.

“I think they moved it out already,” said Hana, snapping her gum over the comm.

“Hanzo?”

“Both are possibilities,” Hanzo admitted. “There were some new warehouses going over on Fuji Street-”

He was cut off by Genji. “Fukumori Sato, coming in one o’clock. From the west.”

“Confirmed,” Hanzo replied.

“There’s no way they would have Fukumori guarding something this valuable,” said Genji.

“Maybe he’s bringin’ coffee or somethin’?”

“No it’s just him and his arms are empty.”

“What’s he doin’?”

“Unlocking the warehouse.”

They waited in silence as Fukumori disappeared into the warehouse, exited with a case, and drove away.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Lena sighed.

“We need better intel.”

“There’s nothing in the information General Takeuchi provided?”

“I dunno, Hana’s got the file.”

Hana snapped her gum again. “Item being moved from the lab,” she read aloud. “Transport hijacked, driver killed, truck found behind the mall. Mall security sees nothing, probably paid off in advance to be somewhere else looking in the wrong direction.”

McCree stared out at the drizzle. So far this was shaping up to be a real bore. He wondered how Hanzo was getting on. He’d been very quiet unless asked directly about their mission, in which case he tried very hard to hide any real feelings about the matter, instead putting on his “focus and get through this” look.

“How about a good old fashioned shakeup?” Jesse suggested.

“Ooh,” Haha squealed, “can I be bad cop?”

“Wouldn’t you get recognized love?”

“Poo, she’s right.”

“Who would we ah, ask anyhow?”

“Fukumori and the others used to hang out at a karaoke bar called Weekdays,” said Genji. “I wonder if it’s still around. Hanzo?”

“It is,” Hanzo confirmed. “Fukumori himself would make a good target. He talks when he’s drunk, hence why he is still an errand boy.”

“Burn,” said Hana matter of factly.

“What are we thinking?” said Lena. Jesse pulled a half finished cigar from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, wanting desperately to light it and chase away the rainy chill. 

“I’ll go into the bar,” he suggested. “Genji should be on hand in case we need backup. Hanzo should come to. Put on a disguise and keep an ear open. My japanese is …” rusty was too kind a word for it. “Bad,” he finished.

“Hana should go to the arcade,” Hanzo piped in.

“I should?” said Hana. “I mean, I want to. But should?” It was an odd suggestion.

“The younger generation had made it their preferred hangout,” Hanzo replied. “I think they will be receptive to your … prowess.” Jesse could practically hear Hana grinning over the comm. She cracked her knuckles expectantly.

“Game on!”


	9. 24 Hour Cinderella

* * *

By evening the rain had let up to a light drizzle, though this did little to abate the chill in the air. Hanzo lead McCree down along Hanamura’s main late night drag, past the watering holes and tiny restaurants selling ramen, gyoza and bowls of gyudon well into the late night hours. The light from yellow neon and red lanterns was reflected in the rain slick streets so that the whole town seemed to glow unnaturally, a stark contrast to the ancient, subdued castle visible on the hill. Hanzo was wearing his high collared coat and a flu mask to cover his face, and Lena’s beanie to cover his hair. Jesse suspected though that if anyone who really knew him met his eyes they would recognize his gaze instantly. It was hard to forget. Or maybe that was just him.

“All normal down here,” he said to Genji over the comm.

“Confirmed,” said Genji, from his vantage somewhere on the rooftops. “I saw Fukumori head into the bar.”

“Turn here,” said Hanzo, quietly. “There is a pedestrian walkway behind the street.” He lead McCree down a wide alley to a pathway paved in grey brick. Less garish and quieter than the main street, it terminated at the aforementioned bar, tucked into the back of a larger building.

“I’ll go in first,” said Hanzo. “You follow after five minutes and-”

“Hey hey hey!” the tinny voice of an omnic called to them from a nearby alley. Hanzo stiffened.

“Oh, _no_ ,” he groaned. “No no no…”

“Is that really you, Hanzo-kun?” An omnic approached them from they alley, arms opened wide in greeting. They wore a patterned suit jacket, black gloves, and an eyepatch. Jesse narrowed his eyes. Why did an omnic need an eyepatch? He looked to Hanzo, who was rubbing his forehead. He had the look of someone who had just been corned by a relative, or a friend of their parents, and knew he was going to come out of it with a headache.

“Hanzo-kun, I thought you had left us for good! What are you doing back in Hanamura? Who is this fine fellow?”

“Not so _loud!_ ” Hanzo hissed. He grabbed the omnic by the lapels and dragged them back into the alley, away from prying eyes and ears.

“Hanzo-kun, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“I am not your friend! And do not call me that!”

“Hanzo who is this,” Jesse finally asked. Hanzo took a deep breath.

“This is Majima. He’s an old family … acquaintance. Majima, this is Jesse McCree.”

“ _Konichiwa_ ,” said Majima, giving Jesse a little wave, “You landed yourself a good one, Hanzo-kun.” Hanzo looked like he was five seconds from murdering the omnic. Jesse’s comm pinged.

_“McCree?”_ said Genji. _“I saw you disappear into an alley. Is everything all right?”_

“Uh, yeah, copy that,” replied McCree. “We’ve run into a … family friend. Is he gonna be a problem, Hanzo?”

“Am I?” asked Majima. “I might be. Because last time I talked to a Shimada he was half dead in a hospital bed -”

_“Oh my god is that Majima? Jesse, take out your comm!”_ Jesse obliged, taking out his earpiece and holding it up toward the omnic. _“Majima-san!”_ Genji cried.

“Genji-kun!” Majima crowed, “you sound much better than the last time I saw you! What’s your good for nothing brother doing showing his face here again?”

_“It is a long story! Take it easy on Hanzo, he’s improved. Better yet, maybe you can help us? Hanzo, Jesse, I know, let’s talk in person. Majima, bring them to the back of your club.”_

“Ten-four!” said Majima He turned to Jesse and Hanzo. “Shall we, gents? You can fill me in on the way.”

Hanzo sighed, letting go of Majima’s jacket. Jesse was still not entirely sure what was going on.

“Mind uh, filling me in a bit?” he asked.

“Of course!” said Majima. “As Hanzo-kun said, I am Majima Goro, owner of the Siren.”

“Majima has been acquainted with our family for close to sixty years.”

“Even back when I had flesh and blood,” Majima added.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean.” asked McCree.

“What indeed,” said Majima. “You think I was always a walking bag of bolts? Nah. But sometimes our bodies fail us, and lucky for me I was able to find a new one.”

“He a cyborg?” asked McCree.

“No,” said Hanzo. “He had his consciousness, or something like it, implanted in an omnic body. Or so he says.”

“You think he’s crazy? Omnics don’t really go crazy.”

“Being over a hundred would make anyone crazy, baby,” Majima drawled.

_Over a hundred?_ Jesse mouthed. Hanzo shrugged.

“I’ll give you the quick version,” said Majima. “Many long years ago I was the head of the Majima family, a small but respectable group of entrepreneurs in the not so small or respectable city of Kamurocho. The city never slept, and cash flowed like a good champagne buzz; there one night, gone by morning. The omnic wars hit Kamurocho like a well aimed baseball bat, and it was up to her citizens to put their differences aside and face their common enemy. Which of course they did not, instead each trying to leverage the omnic uprising to help them to the top of a pile of their enemies corpses. There were a few of us, fighting on behalf of your average customer - uh, citizen - but omnics don’t die easy, and an omnic you kill in one body today can come back in another tomorrow, and they will have learned a thing or two. I was getting old. I was tired of beating back a foe with much less limited resources. So I figured if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, as they say.”

“Did it work?” asked McCree.

“Fuck no. I was the only person who did it. Kamurocho got wrecked. I chose to start anew at the invitation of an old friend in Hanamura.” Majima stopped dead and spun around, levelling the two men with his unmoving omnic eyes and stopping them in their tracks. “That,” he said, “or I’m an omnic sleeper agent.”

McCree’s hand twitched, reaching slowly for Peacekeeper tucked into his waistband under his jacket. Hanzo shifted his weight ever so slightly, ready on the defense.

Majima burst out laughing.

“As if!” he crowed. “I don’t owe shit or allegiance to anyone anymore, and I’m going to keep it that way for a while. Anyway, Hanzo-kun knows I’m not a big fan of the current regime up at Shimada castle-” Hanzo nodded in affirmation “-and I don’t think hopping into bed with Talon is going to do them any good in the long run. Maybe I’ll get a crew together and give them a run for their money, eh? See how much the Shimada monopoly can withstand. Then again I would rather go up against you than your uncle. He’s not going to be much of a challenge.”

“So it’s true then,” said Hanzo, ignoring the jibe.

“‘Bout Talon? ‘Fraid so,” said Majima. “Ah, think about it this way, Hanzo. You’ve become the guardian spirit of the Shimada, who returns in brilliant bloody fashion to remind them they have made bad decisions.”

“I am not a dragon,” said Hanzo. “Not … any more.”

“I don’t know,” said Majima. “I think your spirit buddies feel a little differently. I haven’t seen a dragon around Hanamura in a while, but you an Genji still command them, no? Don’t give me that look. Half the city saw your little light show last spring. Anyway, shelve that thought. We have arrived!” Majima clapped his hands together, then spread his arms wide to as if to embrace the facade of a brightly lit, blue and gold building, which the marquee pronounced to be the Siren. “Come along; you brother is probably loitering by the dumpsters.”

“Neat,” said McCree, admiring the facade. Hanzo scoffed.

“It is a cabaret club.”

Genji was indeed loitering out back next to the dumpsters. Majima exclaimed with surprise and delight when he saw him.

“Genji-kun!” he said, bowing. “You did you finally get upgraded all the way? I’m finally a trendsetter! I’m proud!”

Genji laughed, returning the gesture. “Sorry to burst your bubble; there’s still a lot of Genji under all this.”

“Ah well, as long as the important parts are still workin’, eh?” Majima nudged Genji in the ribs. Hanzo’s death glare slid back into place.

“Anyway,” Majima continued, “Hanzo and his cowboy were headed for that bar, so I assume you were trying to find someone from the clan to, hm, politely question?”

“Yes,” said Genji. “Though, if you think any of your girls have heard anything, we’d love to speak with them.”

“Yes and have him charge us for it,” said Hanzo snidely.

“Hey, hey, man has to make a living, as do the ladies he employs. Anyway,” he said, leaning over and in close so he could look Hanzo in the eye, “I’m prepared to offer this to you Pro. Bono. Because I don’t like Talon nosing around in my town, and I don’t like your ojisan. Besides, I’m pretty sure Genji has a bottle keep here.”

They followed Majima in through the kitchen, lining up at the bar while he fished around under the counter. It wasn’t a busy night at the Siren, with only a handful of customers chatting with the hostesses. McCree couldn’t help but notice at least one of the patrons was an omnic. A couple of the girls spotted them and cooed.

“Aw christ,” muttered McCree, trying to hide behind the brim of his hat. Hanzo raised an eyebrow. Genji laughed.

“Are we going to get to watch McCree try and fend off women? And I thought it was going to be a boring trip.”

“Why is this so amusing?” Hanzo asked.

“Because I don’t know how to let her down gently,” said Genji, mimicking McCree’s accent. “Because she’s bein’ so nice an’ I don’t want her to feel like she’s wastin’ her tiiime.” McCree groaned while Genji devolved into a fit of laughter. “Genji,” he whined, still in his McCree-voice, “pretend to be my boyfriend so they’ll leave me alone.”

“That was one time!” said McCree, holding up a finger. “One time. An’ I was drunk.” He looked up from under his hat at Hanzo who, to his surprise, was blushing. 

“If you think that's funny you should have been here on Hanzo’s twentieth birthday,” said Majima. “I have never seen a man more uncomfortable in my life.”

“You ordered the girls to gang up on me!”

“It was your birthday and Sojiro was paying and it only got funnier the longer it went on.” The girls approached the bar just as Majima reappeared from underneath it with a dusty bottle of vodka.

“How old is that?” asked Hanzo, turning up his nose. Majima unscrewed the cap and sniffed it.

“Smells fine to me he said,” holding the bottle out. There was a brief pause before one of the girls devolved into peals of laughter.

“You don’t have a nose!” Hanzo complained. The other girl was giggling too, much more restrained, and the bartender wore a smirk. It looked like Majima had pulled this one before.

“You shouldn’t drink that,” said the bartender. “Majima was keeping it out of sentiment.”

“Hey, hey!” said Majima. “No gossiping.”

“I’ll fetch you something better,” said the bartender.

“I’m fine, really,” said Genji.

“As are we,” said Hanzo, speaking for the both of them. McCree only nodded.

“Spoilsports,” said Majima, “not drinking on the job and everything. Yuki,” he said, turning to the bartender, “who was it who was entertaining the boys from the castle the other night?”

“Aika and Miu. Aika is with a customer right now.”

“And Miu is here laughing at me. Alright hon, these fellows have a few questions for you. Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you.” Miu eyes the three of them. She looked a little unsure.

“Do not worry, we are not police,” said Genji, a reassuring tone to his voice.

“Ain’t that exactly what cops would say?” asked McCree. The girl with Miu giggled. Hanzo scowled, his expression decidedly unreassuring.

“These fine professionals,” Majima interjected pouring a glass of orange juice and adding some clear soda from the bar tap, “were hoping you could repeat for them what the boys from the castle were gossiping about earlier this week.”

Hanzo conscientiously tugged his sleeve so that his tattoo was fully hidden. Majima handed the drink to Miu. She took it, but she only held it, the mirth having disappeared from her face.

“Majima-san,” she said, quietly. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke louder. “Majima-san, you yourself always tell us to be discreet.” Her eyes flicked to Yuki, the bartender. Her presence seemed to embolden her. “You don’t think this is … unprofessional?”

“She has you there,” said Yuki. Majima drummed his fingers on the counter.

“Miu,” said Majima, “you are a beauty and your eye for professionalism is an asset to this establishment. Why don’t you start by telling us what the word on the street is regarding our friends on the hill?”

Miu’s hands tightened on the glass, this time with anger reflected on her face. “They’ve become thugs,” she said. “Their boss can’t control them, and he doesn’t care to.”

“They’re expendable to him,” said Hanzo unexpectedly. “They act out as a show of power, but if they go to far, they are disposed of. It’s the only thing that they truly fear.” Miu nodded in agreement. “However,” Hanzo continued, “the only thing he considers too far is anything that reflects badly on himself.”

“Yes,” Miu replied.

“Which means,” said Majima, “something like getting a little to handsy with a hostess goes unpunished. Especially if the owner is afraid.”

“Hey,” said Yuki. “that’s low.”

“Is it?” said Majima. “A lot of us heard what happened to your friend, Miu-chan. You want to get back? Get even? You’ve stayed professional, stuck to your guns. Think of this as your bonus. You don’t even have to name names.”

McCree had to admit, the man had charisma despite his appearance. A hundred years had given him a lot of practice.

Miu sipped her drink, wetting her tongue and gathering herself. “Mostly they just bitch lately,” she said. “The boss has them answering to a spanish lady. She makes them haul her tech and fetch her things. Acts like she’s the princess of the castle now.” Miu took another sip of the drink.

“I’ve never heard of the Shimada working with Spaniards,” said Genji looking at Hanzo, who just shook his head.

“She’s not spanish from Spain. She’s Mexican. Some kind of computer specialist. She makes them call her Kage-sama, like she’s a ninja. They hate it.”

“What kind of tech are they hauling?”

Miu shrugged. “Don’t know. They say it's good stuff.” She wrapped her lips around the straw once more.

“That all?” asked Genji.

“That’s all,” Miu replied.

“If you hear anything else, you let me know,” said Majima. “Now go be a good girl and pretend we were never here.”

Miu bowed politely and retreated with her drink, keeping an eye on the door for any new customers.

“You must be disappointed,” said McCree. “Those guys gossip like its’ going out of style.”

“My uncle was never very popular,” said Hanzo. “Loyalty is failing.” He said it matter of fact, neither pleased nor displeased. Genji looked at him sadly. “Do not get me wrong, I do not with to see our clan crumble, but what happens, happens.” Genji sighed.

“I wondered who this shadow woman is, anyway.”

“You mean our mysterious latina princess?” asked McCree.

“Yes. Kage translates into english as shadow.”

McCree stopped dead.

“Uh oh, he’s onto something!” said Majima gleefully.

“Sombra,” said McCree.

“Shadow,” said Majima, trying to guess the game they were playing.

“What?” said Genji. McCree turned to Hanzo, ignoring Majima.

“It translates into spanish as Sombra.”

* * *

They hastened back to the arcade to share the fruits of their labour with the ladies. There was a large crowd gathered at the back around Hana, the Street Fighter machine, and a young man with bleach blonde hair.

“Really,” said McCree, “did we expect anything else?” The crowd cheered as Hana took the second round. Hanzo scanned their faces quickly.

“There is no one here I recognize,” he said.

“Seriously?” said Genji, pointing at the blonde. “That’s the owner’s son,” he said, like Hanzo was supposed to know who he was. McCree opted to amble over to Lena, who was leaning on the snack counter deep in conversation with the young Japanese woman working the till.

“Oh,” she said, “ disappointed, “are we heading out?”

“Fraid so darlin’.”

“Okay, one moment.” She turned back to the other woman. “I think you can do it, I really do. He may be your brother, but his mistakes aren't’ your mistakes, okay? You don’t need to be working nights here. You should follow your dream. Being a pilot is really amazing.”

The poor cashier seemed to be on the verge of tears, moved by whatever conversation they had been having. When Lena stood she bowed to her at the waist.

“ _Arigatou_ , Tracer-san.”

“Aw it's fine, it really is. And you can call me Lena, okay?”

Hana whined about having to leave, but the crowd was starting to get rowdy and if anything got out of hand her captain and her mother would call Winston and start giving him hell again.

“Do you know anything about gathering intel?” asked McCree as they left the arcade.

“I know how to gather intel,” Hana argued. “I just got carried away is all. I challenged the Yakuza guys to a match and I kicked their asses just a little too hard. But they talked.”

“Spill then,” said Jesse. Hana yawned.

“All the yakuza guys complain about some Mexican lady. Makes them do all her busy work and fetch her stuff but they can’t complain ‘cause she’s a guest off the boss. Though one of them said something like, she works for the boss or he works for her I dunno my Japanese is crappy when it doesnt’ come to games. Either way, she’s untouchable. No-one’s allowed to complain about her.”

“We got a similar story,” said Jesse. “Put it together, what does it mean?”

“Sounds to me,” said Lena, “like the objective is more than a quick buck.”

“If they are going to put themselves through the effort of stealing something so valuable,” said Hanzo, “then they should be putting it to use.”

“What happened t’ ‘I don’t care if they run themselves into the ground’.?”

“I am merely pointing out their mistake,” Hanzo grumbled. “Regardless, they are not using the tech. Sombra is.”

Hana yawned again, wider this time.

“Put it into the report and let the brains figure it out.”

The group ambled down the wet sidewalks of Hanamura, following Genji’s backstreet route back to the hotel. They passed a Family Mart, a florist shuttered for the night, a glass sided office building with magnesium white security lights. They wandered back to their hotel in relative silence. Jesse figured walking the streets of Hanamura would make Hanzo and Genji nostalgic (for better or for worse), but Hanzo marched with his eyes set firly ahead, a professional man on a professional mission. They had adjoining rooms; girls in one, guys in the other. Genji immediately propped his sword up in the umbrella stand, sprawled across one of the beds and started playing games on his phone. Hanzo took off the flu mask and flopped on the other. Both brothers glowered at McCree until he took his boots off at the door. The scene was uncomfortable reminiscent of their time in China, which Jesus Christ somehow felt like a damn lifetime ago. Jesse excused himself to the washroom. He could hear Genji asking questions in Japanese while he brushed his teeth, and Hanzo’s mumbled reply. When Jesse emerged Genji was still taking up the entirety of one bed, and Hanzo half of the other, so he was forced to sit gingerly next to the elder Shimada. Hanzo made no word of reproach. Genji waited until Jesse was comfortable to turn off his phone and disappear into the washroom.

“The heck are you doin’?” asked McCree. Genji waved nonchalantly.

“I still have teeth to look after.” He shut the door with a click and left the room in silence.

“So,” said McCree. “How you holdin’ up?”

“I will be fine.”

“Yer oddly fine, considerin’ the circumstances”

“I have chosen to put my focus on our mission. It is not the first time I have returned to Hanamura. It is … not so bad after the first time. “Besides, I realized long ago that without my family Hanamura … no longer felt like home.”

McCree nodded.

“Yeah, I hear ya there.”

“You do?”

Jesse was silent for a moment, gathering the right words.

“I mean, yeah. Why do you think I didn’t want to go back to Overwatch?”

“Because you were forced to do unpleasant tasks for them?”

“Yes okay that too, but I also thought it would be … weird. How can you go back when literally everything has changed? When most of the people you knew are dust in the wind?”

“You seem making out okay.”

“Better ‘n I expected I guess. I dunno. Lena and Genji and Winston all want to make a better future, right? They ain’t lookin’ at the past. They want to see good things so they set out’n make them. It doesn’t feel like it used to, at all. And I think that’s for the better. It feels like something new, you know? Rather n’ draggin’ up ghosts.”

“Yes,” replied Hanzo. “I do know.” He continued, more quietly. “Being around Genji … I should feel guilty, I should be atoning. Instead I feel hopeful. Facing what I have done should hurt it shouldn’t make me …”

“Feel better?”

“Hmph. I find it preferable to being alone and in the dark.”

_Geneva gone, hunted by Talon and the remnants of Deadlock; can’t stay in one place long enough to reach out, say hi, see who’s dead and who’s okay, who made it out. Why did no one come? You walked out, they didn’t want you anymore. You abandoned them, of course they didn’t want to hear from you. Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep doing what you’re doing? Collecting bounties isn’t going to tell the dead you’re sorry._

_You seem to be doing just fine._

_Because I realized there were people happy just to see I was okay._

_Jesus_ , Jesse realized, _It really is better to know._

Jesse reached over, touching Hanzo lightly on the elbow. When Hanzo didn’t pull away he slid his hand up Hanzo’s arm and snaked it in under Hanzo’s own, giving it a squeeze. It didn’t register very well through his prosthetic, but he knew Hanzo was squeezing back.

“Do you think Genji-” he asked finally but he was interrupted by the man himself bursting from the washroom. Hanzo pulled his hand quickly away from Jesse.

“Do I what now?”

“Requires sleep,” Hanzo finished. Genji quickly regarded the men next to each other.

“Yes,” he decided, tossing himself spread eagle on the empty bed. He snapped off the light, ending the conversation.

“Goodnight Hanzo, McCree.”

Hanzo woke again that night to a nightmare, letting out a shout when he saw the green lights of Genji’s body.. He backed into McCree as Genji blinked awake looking confused. McCree put a steadying hand on Hanzo’s arm.

“‘S okay,” he mumbled. Hanzo took a deep, steadying breath.

“Hey,” said Genji, sitting up. “I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” Hanzo replied, rising swiftly and shutting himself in the washroom.

“Shit,” muttered McCree. “I thought he was sleepin’ a lot better.”

“It’s not as if there is a magic cure,” said Genji, flopping back onto the bed. “And I think being in Hanamura has thrown Hanzo from his center more than he wants to admit.”

“Forgivin’ other people is easy,” McCree yawned. “Forgiving yourself is hard. Give ‘er time.”

“Master said the same thing.”

“He’s a clever one.”

“You know, he’s barely older than Hana.”

“Guess he didn’t have to go through all that growin’ up shit like the rest of us.”

“Or he still is. Which seems more scary.”

“Speaking of omnics, did Majima challenge him? Hanzo, I mean.”

McCree thought back on it.

“Yeah. Said he could get a crew to challenge your uncle but that Hanzo would be a better opponent.”

“And Hanzo?”

“Ignored him.”

Ganji nodded. “Good. Good.”

“Why you ask?”

“Majima likes to challenge the people around him. Test their resolve. Help them build strength. It’s not competition, its his way of helping the people around him grow. He’s less disappointed that he won’t get to challenge Hanzo than he is proud that Hanzo chose his own path, away from the clan. He … you know he introduced me to Master?”

“Uuh, nope?”

“I came back here, first, after the fall of Overwatch, because he was the only other person I knew who had … undergone a transformation like mine. Siren is actually a safe haven for omnics; there are not many places they are wholly welcome, even in Hanamura. Most people don’t know about Majima’s past and he doesn’t tell them. He’s not interested in people who would judge him only as an omnic. Zenyatta and Mir were here and he introduced us. The rest is history.”

McCree meant to give the bed to Hanzo and sleep next to Genji, he really did. But it had been a long day and staying awake proved to be more than he could manage. McCree spent the rest of the night in a dream where he chased an omnic down Route 66, the canyon walls silver in the bright moonlight. But all he ever saw of his target was their shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise.


	10. Not Gonna Let Them Catch the Midnight Rider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was advised that I probably want to update this to explicit, for this and the next chapter.

* * *

The following morning dawned bright, the sky temporarily clear of misty spring rain. Hanamura looked much more peaceful under the morning sun. It warmed Jesse’s back under the blankets, a pleasant, almost homey feeling. Jesse turned over and came nearly face to face with Hanzo, who had migrated toward the center of the bed overnight, to the point where he was more or less pressed to Jesse’s back. The hotel room was quiet; Genji was already awake it seemed, having slipped out before anyone could scold him about blowing his cover. Jesse cussed him silently. If Genji had seen them sleeping like that, he’d probably taken pictures. Jesse regarded Hanzo as the other man slept. He looked so much more peaceful than he ever did when he was awake. It was not a word Jesse thought of often, but with worry and anger gone from his face, Hanzo was downright beautiful. Jesse shifted his hand and ever so carefully brushed a stray lock of hair from Hanzo’s forehead. Hanzo’s eyes blinked open. Transparent brown in the sunlight, intricate and warm like Hanzo’s breath on his nose, his chin, his lips. So close...

“Jesse,” Hanzo murmured.

“Yeah?” McCree realized he was letting his hand linger on Hanzo’s temple. He would only need to move a little to kiss him.

“We-”

He was cut off as Genji crashed into the room, prompting Hanzo to roll out of bed, suddenly very awake and alert

“Wake up!” Genji hollered. “It’s been an hour and you have team members who want to eat!”

The team talked strategy over breakfast - warm tea and pastries from the corner store next to the hotel. Jesse has a warm can of black coffee from the vending machine in his hand and another stuffed into his pocket.

“I want to go on assignment in America again,” said Lena. “I haven’t been to a Denny’s in the better part of a decade.”

McCree clutched his heart. “You poor beleaguered soul! How have you survived?”

“With unclogged arteries?” suggested Hanzo.

“I went to a Waffle House once,” said Hana. “At a tournament in L.A. Isn’t it like the same thing?”

“Not even close.”

“I found a Denny’s in Tokyo once,” Genji chimed in. 

“You did not,” said Hanzo flatly.

“Did too. It was all omelettes and egg sandwiches. They’re nothing special.”

“You never told me that,” said McCree. “Is that why you would never come to Denny’s with us?”

“Well yeah. I never understood what got you so excited.”

Jesse clutched his chest once more in mock pain. “My heart weeps for thee, Genji Shimada. Next time we’re in the States, we’re going.”

“He doesn’t even like eggs,” said Hanzo.

“Then get pancakes. Yer on your fifth bun already, you must like pancakes.”

“Don’t judge. You know I need like five thousand calories a day if I can’t recharge. I’m not a glutton. Tell him, Hanzo.” Hanzo was staring at his own breakfast, expression downcast.

“You should take him out for ramen,” he said, his voice wooden. “He is a glutton. He will eat you out of house and home.” An old joke.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” said Genji, nudging his brother. “I can still taste it, and I can still enjoy it. Eat your food, ani.” Hanzo smiled weakly and took a large bite of his bun, but his heart was no longer in it.

They spent the rest of the day casing the castle, mapping out the patrols and getting the lowdown on the highways and byways from Hanzo and Genji. The plan was to have the brothers and McCree get in, nab the armour if they could or sabotage it if they couldn’t, while Lena and Hana stood standby with the mech, Lena prepped to evacuate them and provide getaway as need be.

“I’m technically a pilot too,” Hana huffed. “How come I never get to drive?”

“You can drive,” said Lena, “as long as I get to pilot the mech.”

“Or I can fly the mech,” McCree volunteered.

“You wouldn’t fit,” Hana sneered. “And you’d stink her up with your smelly cigars.”

“Anyway,” said Lena. “Are we sure about, you know,” she tilted her head toward Hanzo and Genji.

“Genji I ain’t too worried about. An’ Hanzo said he’s been back since he broke up with the clan, so he thinks he’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think its just the castle,” said Hana. “It’s this place plus Genji. It’s gonna shake him.”

“Yeah,” McCree sighed. “But you try stoppin’ him. Stubborn as a bull.”

“As a dragon,” Hana reminded him. 

They ate dinner in shifts, one team keeping an eye on the castle comings and goings, the other alternatively gorging themselves and watching Genji gorge himself on ramen.

“It’s a dream come true!” he said gleefully. “I can eat as much as I want and not get sick!”

It was while they were eating that their intel arrived from Winston; everything he could dig up on the mysterious Sombra.

“This is literally just a list of crimes,” said Hana. “You didn’t even get a picture.”

“That’s all there _is_ ,” said Winston. “The fact that this person appears to be a woman is a breakthrough all on it’s own. Authorities can’t even be sure these crimes were all the same perpetrator, just the same calling card, which in theory could be left by anyone. Sombra could be multiple people, could be an AI, but if they’re a woman, then there has to be a record of them somewhere.”

“Does any of this help us take her down?”

“Probably not,” Winston admitted. “One thing to watch for though; she was implicated in an attack on a police station in Dorado, in which one of the officers supposedly lost control of their prosthetic arm. They later discovered the biomonitor was hacked.”

“My arm ain’t digital,” McCree reminded him.

“True, but Hanzo’s legs might be. And Genji certainly is.”

Genji finally stopped eating.

“Shit,” he said. McCree scratched his beard.

“Should Lena go instead?” he suggested. Genji shook his head.

“I can be in and out in half the time. It’s a good heads up. I’ll shut off my bio-monitor, stay off the comm as much as I can. We get in, we get out. No time for hacking.”

“Genji-”

“Anyway,” Genji continued. “I need you to stay with Hanzo. And better I me then Lena’s accelerator. Or a mech that can take out omnics. Sorry Hana.” Hana sighed heavily, flopping back and picking at the last of her gyoza. Peeved, but she understood. Winston also sighed, heavy and grainy over the comms.

“Do what you have to to stay safe. Let me know how it went as soon as you can.”

* * *

“Ugh,” said McCree, half an hour later. “I shouldn’t eat before a mission, makes me sluggish, you know?”

“No,” the brothers replied in unison. McCree groaned, defeated.

“We ready to go?”

“Are we synchronizing watches?”

“No?”

“Then let’s get moving already.”

Genji made a motion like he was rolling his eyes, then vanished, running up a nearby wall so he could circle around to the north of the castle. Hanzo and McCree were coming in from the east. Hanzo had told them there were two possible locations the armour could be - the garage, which would be rather obvious, or the main hall, which when the furniture was moved would make a large enough workspace. Genji, able to move quicker on his own, was going for the hall. Meanwhile Hanzo climbed nimbly up the outer wall and leaped into the branches of a tree growing just inside the perimeter. Hiding in the budding leaves he could snatch glimpses into the garage. McCree not being the young man he used to be had to wait until the coast was clear and Hanzo could throw him a line. The gate, Hanzo had reminded him, would automatically trigger the cameras and notify security.

 _Man_ , thought McCree, _having a hacker on your side sounds really nice right about now_.

“Whaddya see?” asked McCree.

“Nothing unusual,” Hanzo replied. “The garage is closed. Come up.” McCree grabbed the line and hauled, using his arms to pull himself to the top of the wall where he squatted precariously next to Hanzo, who was perched on a branch like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Think you can hit the gate with a flashbang?” asked Hanzo.

“Yes siree.” McCree obliged, lobbing the grenade and shutting his eyes before it went off. The flashbang cracked and blossomed light, but apart from that the garden remained silent and still.

“No one’s there,” McCree guessed.

“Indeed,” said Hanzo. “They would - _should_ \- have come to investigate otherwise.” He dropped down from the tree almost soundlessly, followed by the heavy thump and jangle of McCree hitting the ground. Hanzo peeked through the garage window.

“Empty,” he announced. “Nothing out of place. Hm.”

“What? Something wrong?”

“The have replaced my car.”

“What?”

“My uncle has terrible taste in cars.”

“Really? Never owned a car myself.”

“No?”

“Do I look like I’m made of money?”

“You’ve _stolen_ a car before. Surely that implies preference.”

“Yeah, but ya’ don’t keep a stolen car. You sell it. For cash.”

“Cash with which to buy..?”

“Ammo. And a new leather jacket. And a motorbike. Then you go underage drinking and crash the motorbike in the ravine and ruin the jacket.”

“It is no wonder you and Genji get along so well,” Hanzo remarked.

“Speakin’ of the present, are we worried about cameras at all?” asked McCree. Hanzo shook his head.

“Not if you follow my lead.”

Hanzo hauled himself to the roof of the garage, leaning down to give McCree a hand, then leapt from onto the second floor balcony of the adjoining wing. They were huddled on the balcony when Genji pinged them on the comm.

“I am almost there. I had to climb a chimney because Kisuke and his goons were playing dice on the stairs again. It’s been ten years and no-one’s kicked their asses over it yet?”

“I meant to,” said Hanzo. “Other things just … seemed more important.”

“Finally!” hissed Genji. “Coming up on the main hall. I can see some computer tech. You should probably make your way here. Keep quiet. Genji out.”

“McCree out,” McCree confirmed. “Hanzo?”

Hanzo was staring out over the courtyard and garden. It was hard to tell what was going on behind his eyes, but if McCree had to guess he would have guessed at nostalgia.

“Hey,” said McCree. “It sucks but you gotta focus.”

Hanzo drew a deep breath. “My apologies. Every time I come back the castle is a little different, and yet still the same. This is logical. Things change, however I still always feel as if …”

_As if a place so integral to memories should be locked in time, as if it should not change and one is disoriented and struck as if receiving a personal offence when it turns out that time has indeed continued its relentless pace, and you are now an outsider to that with which you were once intimate._

“As if something is not right.”

McCree almost missed it, the first drops of rain falling on the brim of his hat, but as Hanzo finished speaking the heavens opened opened up and the rain began again in earnest, eating up the quiet of the night with the low roar of raindrops. The whole scene made Jesse feel melancholy. He wanted to bring back the sunlight from that morning, to wap Hanzo in its warmth. Hanzo’s tattoo flickered, the dragons squirming under his skin. Jesse tried to pinpoint exactly when he became so fucked for Hanzo Shimada. He came up blank. McCree cleared his throat.

“Let’s mosey then,” he suggested. “Get out of here as soon as we can.”

The moved as quickly as they dared, Hanzo helping McCree over the slippery rooftops and in through a window on the top floor of the main building. McCree’s serape dripped and Hanzo’s hair clung to his forehead. The main hall was everything McCree expected it to be; sparsely decorated with high timber roofs, bamboo mats, and swimming with the smell of smoke and incense. Drafty though. Great in the summer, he guessed, not so hot during the winter months. A thick bundle of cables ran around the outer wall, leading the pair into a smaller, similarly styled anteroom. Here a workstation had been set up against one wall, starkly anachronistic with its surroundings. Several computer towers, holo monitors on standby, and a tangle of wires and diagnostic hardware. Next to it, a stand where a suit of armour would sit, but no armour. And no Shimada-gumi either, just Genji with his back to them, sword drawn, looking at the scroll that decorated the far wall.

“We too late?” asked McCree.

“Late…” said Genji.

“Yeah. Did they book it? Did they know we were commin’ or what?”

“Coming,” said Genji, turning slowly. “Yes, she did say something.” Genji’s head lolled to the side, as if he were having trouble holding it up. The display on his visor glowed a vivid, fluorescent purple.

“Genji?”

“Genj?”

Suddenly his visor snapped back to its usual green and Genji straightened, dropping his sword.

“Get out!” he shouted. “Get out it’s a fucking trap-!”

Genji dropped again, arms hanging like a ragdoll. When he looked up again, the visor glowed purple and it was a different voice that spoke with his mouth.

“Now, now. Spoilers!” said a woman with a Mexican accent. “So much for my carefully planned ambush. But then again, I’ve never hacked a cyborg before.” Genji - or was it Sombra now? - reached down and picked up the sword. “Your uncle told me what happened all those years ago, and you know my employer was wondering, if given the chance, would the young master do it again? I usually root for the underdog myself. I was hoping maybe _el gorrión_ could have his chance at revenge.”

“Don’t be fucken stupid,” said McCree, drawing Peacekeeper. “Hanzo an’ Genji ain’t layin’ a finger on each other.” He lay his other hand on Hanzo’s arm and began to back them cautiously out of the room. Hanzo hadn’t made a sound, but thankfully he was present enough to follow Jesse’s lead.

“We’re comin’ back,” McCree promised. “We’re gonna come back and wreck you, mark my-”

Behind him, just outside the doorway, came a heavy thump, as if someone in a suit of armour had just landed on the mats from a drop of some height. McCree knew enough to take a guess at what it was.

“What,” Sombra drawled. “You thought I was going to let this be two on one? Tsk tsk, I thought the good guys believed in a fair fight.”

Three things happened just after that, almost simultaneously. One, Genji charged. Two, McCree hit the comm and hollered, “D.Va! Backup! Now!” And three, Hanzo raised his arm and barked out his command for the dragons to emerge. McCree’s heart stopped for a second, remembering the way they tore through the training bots, picturing Genji a twisted heap of scrap and burning flesh, terrified that Hanzo had decided to end things quickly rather than play out a game for Sombra’s enjoyment. The dragons barrelled in Genji. But to McCree’s relief they barrelled into him, not through him, slamming him against the workstation and pinning him to the wall. Sombra was a fool, he realized, and he was too, assuming Hanzo would be petrified by the thought of putting Genji in danger. No, Hanzo had been plotting.

There were precious seconds in which to reminisce, however. The assassin behind them dropped their sword to hip height, blade up, and charged. McCree’s combat reflexes kicked in and he rolled out of the way, diving into Hanzo and effectively removing him from the path of the sword. McCree didn’t even bother to stand, he just aimed Peacekeeper from his position on the floor and fanned the hammer, unloading four chambers into the assassin’s side. It did sweet fuck all except to scratch the paint. Across the room, Sombra had freed Genji’s arm enough to slash at one of the dragons, and it screeched an unearthly cry of pain, it’s essence beginning to bleed back into the realm from whence they were summoned. Hanzo hopped to his feet, gruning with the effort of maintaining the dragons and trying to haul McCree to his feet. The assassin was not about to let up however, and renewed their assault on Hanzo and McCree. With so little distance between them, no time to go for a flashbang, and Hanzo still vulnerable McCree did the only thing he could think of and brought up his left arm right in the path of the attack. The assassin’s sword ploughed through steel and wire, and stuck fast. The assassin was stunned, unprepared for such a move and suddenly without control of their weapon. McCree didn’t have time for hesitation, though. He planted Peacekeeper under the assassin’s chin and fired both remaining rounds. That close they may as well have been wearing a pie tin. The slump of the assassin’s body was accompanied by a roar from Hanzo and his dragons as his ability to maintain them lapsed. They whirled up through the ceiling, free. The damage had been done, however, and Genji slumped against the ruined console.

“ _Chikusho!_ ” Hanzo cried, hurtling to his brother’s side. “Shit. Shit! How do I get it off?” he said, scrabbling at Genji’s faceplate. “McCree!” McCree unclasped Genji’s faceplate and the cyborg groaned. He was barely conscious, but otherwise appeared unscathed.

“I’m sorry,” said Hanzo. “I’m sorry brother I-”

“Apologize later,” said McCree. “We gotta jet. Genji if you can hear me boot your fucken bio monitor. Hanzo, you did good. Lemme take him and we can haul ass.” Hanzo nodded. He could lift his brother, but he was worn from the emotional shock and the effort of summoning the dragons. McCree hauled Genji into a fireman's’ carry, while Hanzo picked up his sword. They made it as far as the main hall before they heard a noise behind them. A noise awfully like someone in a suit of armour rising to their feet.

“Are you sure-?” asked Hanzo.

“Positive,” answered McCree. “You saw the blood. Brain should be mush.”

The assassin stumbled into the main hall. Their movements were jerky and heavy, as if they could barely support themselves. The eyes of the armour glowed that awful, vibrant purple.

“You guys are no fun,” said Sombra. “I thought were were gonna play fair, and here you go bringing dragons to the party. Ah well, it seems our little experiment with the armour worked, _si_? Getting control was easy, I don’t know what they had to drag me in for. Still, good money I guess.” Sombra stopped before them. “So. What’ll it be?”

Jesse hesitated. Projectiles were of little use unless he could get close, and Jesse was not good at martial combat. A fistfight he could handle maybe, but Jesse relied heavily on natural bulk and there was no way he could get a grapple on that armour, let alone get one down an arm. He turned to Hanzo who, to his surprise, had taken the bow off his back and dropped it to the mats. Then he wrapped two hands around Genji’s sword.

“After my brother and I fought, I vowed never again to lift a blade. But if it is to protect his life, I think that would be a worthy exception.”

“Hey,” said McCree, “what about my life?” Sombra only shrugged.

“Have it your way, _hombre_.”

Sombra launched her macabre puppet into the air, far beyond the height any normal human could manage, and beyond McCree guessed what the strain of using the armour would allow if its occupant were alive. She raised the sword above its head, aiming for a bone shattering downward strike.

“Eat this!” cried D.Va, and all of a sudden instead of death above them there was a blur of pink and the after image of hot jets. D.Va rammed her mech into the assassin, catching the puppet in mid air and slamming it into the wall. The beam cracked, the armour rent, and McCree winced as he heard several bones snap. Both D.Va and the body hit the floor, blood gushing anew from the fatal wound McCree had inflicted. Sombra's light flickered and died.

“Oh god,” said D.Va. “I didn’t think … that’s a lot of blood.”

“It wasn’t you,” McCree assured her.

“Promise?”

“Yeah. I ain’t lettin’ ya’ steal my kill like that. Do you think your mech can carry the armour? We had to get out of here asap.”

“And have my mech look like the set of _Cannibal Holocaust?_ Nuh-uh.”

“Look, we’ll have Takeuchi pay for the detailing. But we’re gettin paid to bring that thing back and I’m surprised this room ain’t already swarming with Shimada so lets go.”

* * *

“I must say,” said Takeuchi. “I am glad you were able to recover out prototype. The occupant, however …”

“Sorry,” said McCree. “We uh, couldn't’ figure how to operate the thing and get them out.” Takeuchi nodded.

“I suppose it was naive to assume the prototype would not be put to use. You fulfilled your end of the bargain either way. And i suppose the data gathered will be useful in further production.”

“About that,” said McCree. “Productions’ not a great idea.”

“Oh?”

“The Shimada were working with, or bein’ used by who knows, and organization called Talon. I don’t think they ever had plans to sell it for a quick buck. They wanted it on the production line. That’s why they sent in a hacker.”

They’d hashed it out in the carrier on the way over, the “experiment” Sombra had been referring to, why the armour had been allowed to sit around so long.

“Our, ah, professional guess,” said McCree, “Is that they wanted to know for sure that it could be hacked.” Hanzo had deduced this part. “Can you imagine a military with a contract for these? Everything’s going hunky - dory until suddenly your army does whatever Talon wants.”

“Surely a lone hacker does not possess that power.”

“Flyin’ by the seat of their pants maybe, but take the time to find an exploit, weaponize it maybe, and then sell that? That’s worth way more ‘n any one piece of armour.”

Takeuchi sighed, muttering something to himself in Japanese.

“One more thing,” said McCree. “H- Shimada, ah, mentioned that the family would probably have used a spy to get to the goods or get the specs before resorting to theft. He suggested a look into your staff.” Hanzo had actually called the theft “idiotic” and “brazen” and “unbefitting”.

“ _Let Majima have them_ ,” he had muttered.

“Thank you,” said Takeuchi. “I will take Overwatch’s findings under advisement. And your arm, Mister McCree? I have engineers on staff.” McCree waved him off.

“I got a guy who can fix it. I think some of us would rather head home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *braces for impact*
> 
> The Denny's is real and let me tell you it was a surreal experience.


	11. I Have But One Dream That I Can Cling To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the good shit. (?)

“Fix it?” said Torbjorn. “You damn well cut the thing in half! I’ll have to strip it, rewire it, weld the supports and make a new damn plate for the outside!”

“Calm down papa,” said Brigitte.

“He’s done nothing but make work for us!” Torbjorn cried. “If you want to use it as a shield, then we’ll put in a shield, just say so.” Brigitte’s eyes lit up.

“You want to do that ja? It might be a little heavier than you’re used to, but I bet I could do it.”

“Gracias, but no,” replied McCree.

“Well,” said Brigitte, unperturbed. “Think about it.”

“Anyhow,” said Torbjorn. “Unless you feel like sitting there for sixteen hours while we work on it, we’re going to have to take her off.” McCree winced.

“That hurts,” he complained.

“It’ll teach you to look after it,” said Torbjorn.

Half an hour, a shot of whiskey and some judicious swearing later the arm was off and McCree felt decidedly lopsided. The sun had set and the Watchpoint was growing quiet as it’s occupants settled in for the night. Jesse scrounged some food from the kitchen while he wondered what to do with himself. _Practice one handed reload, see if Zenyatta wants to play poker, fill out your mission report…_ Maybe he should take a break, he decided, thinking of the last option. He had just come back, after all. It could wait. Winston wasn’t nearly as much of a hardass as Reyes had been. _Yet,_ He thought. _Enough putting it off and he’ll become one yet _. McCree sat at the little desk in his quarters, chewing leftover penne. What he really wanted he realized with no surprise, was to know what Hanzo was up to. To sit and watch a movie with him and know that after what happened he was okay. He put down the penne and fumbled single handedly with his phone instead, texting, _You doing ok?_ He looked at the message afterwards in displeasure. _Real smooth McCree. Very articulate.___

_I will be,_ came the reply. _Genji and I are talking it over._ Well shit, better leave them to it then. There went his plans for company that evening.

_Thank you,_ Hanzo messaged him. _Maybe you should rest?_

Well, there it was. If someone else thought he should be taking a break then he definitely deserved a break. The paperwork could wait.

* * *

McCree caught up with Hanzo early the next morning. He was half hoping that the elder Shimada would sleep in, that he would forego a morning workout in favour of a little more restful sleep. But alas, there he was, the shirtless adonis wrapping his hands by the punching bags. He looked up upon McCree’s approach from under his lashes, and if it weren’t for that frown McCree may have collapsed from his knees going so weak.

“You are up early,” Hanzo observed.

“Jetlag.” McCree managed a small smile. He was wearing sweats and an undershirt and he hadn’t had breakfast yet. “You wanna spar? If i remember correctly you have a promise to make good on.” Jesse winked. Hanzo smirked.

“I believe I threatened you with physical violence,” Hanzo reminded him.

“Really? I thought you promised me to a good workout session.” McCree bent to take off his boots and socks. “It’s been much too long since I had a proper spar, figured you were offerin’ to give me a refresher.” He tossed the boots into the corner. “Or was I mistaken?” To McCree’s delight Hanzo smirked. It looked natural on him. Good in a way that sent shivers up Jesse’s spine.

“Very well. What discipline did they teach you in Blackwatch?”

Jesse crossed his arm over his chest to stretch. “I am a black belt in the Gabriel Reyes School of Hard Knocks.”

“Well,” said Hanzo, “this school must have some merit, or I doubt you would still be here today.”

“Pft,” Jesse replied, fishing through the gloves and tossing a pair to Hanzo.

“Why, what discipline did they teach ya’ in yakuza training?”

“The study of ninjutsu is composed of eighteen disciplines, including being versed in several forms of taijutsu.” He slid into a stance Jesse recognized from his days sparring and loosing to Genji. “Our first lessons were in adaptability.” McCree didn’t really know what Hanzo was talking about, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him know that. 

“Well, the first lesson of the Gabriel Reyes School of Hard Knocks is ‘Never show your opponent your opening hand’.”

Jesse dropped into a boxer’s stance, shoulders hunched, arms up to protect his head. Something that let him use his bulk to his advantage. Hanzo was quick, coming in with a flurry and forcing McCree to focus on defending himself. McCree let Hanzo wear himself down a bit before realiating with a couple of quick jabs. Hanzo danced out of the way of one, took the other to the shoulder and spun with it, turning it into a glancing blow and giving McCree an extra smack for good measure when he stumbled. McCree swivelled and backed off, rethinking his plan. Hanzo was looking better, more revitalized, more confident, even to the point where he was taunting McCree. Hanzo was smiling. It wasn’t the same goading he had used back during their training exercise, the _Come and get me, give me what I deserve._ It was _Come and get me, I can take you._ Well, let him come at him then, Jesse could wait for an opportunity to take him down-

Hanzo came at him faster than Jesse expected. He came in with another flurry, and this time when McCree tried to retaliate he caught his arm and smacked McCree in ribs with his foot instead, right in fact where he had jabbed him before. McCree tried hard to ignore the warmth of Hanzo’s hands, pulled Hanzo in close (so close), yanked him off his one remaining foot and pushed him to the floor. Lightning quick Hanzo let go and rolled out of the path of McCree’s fall. Jesse ended up face first on the mat but Hanzo wasn’t backing off; he swivelled back in as Jesse tried to rise, kicked his leg out from under him (man Jesse should have insisted Hanzo wear the little sparring booties, those metal feet damn well hurt), and in one swift movement took McCree’s arm and rolled on top on him, pinning Jesse with his arm behind his back and Hanzo’s other hand on the back of his neck. Jesse was left with his face smushed into the mat while Hanzo leaned over him, breathing heavily.

“It seems you need more than a simple refresher,” he said, and his breath tickled Jesse’s neck above the collar of his undershirt.

“Hey now,” McCree grumbled, squirming under the feeling of Hanzo on top of him, “I only got one arm to work with.” Hanzo was keeping him trapped longer than was probably necessary. Jesse began to wonder what would happen if he could roll over and hook a leg around Hanzo’s, get him on his back and - 

“Yo,” said Genji, ambling into the room. “I heard there was a fight. What did I miss?” He eyed the tabeaux in front of him on the mats. “Hanzo, you can’t beat people up when they’re missing an arm.”

“Eh, I asked for it,” said McCree. Hanzo finally let go and stood, leaving Jesse to stare at the bright ceiling lights, high on the feeling of Hanzo’s weight and warmth and bemoaning the loss of it. His reverie was interrupted when Winston knuckled into the doorway and spotted him on the floor.

“There you are McCree. When you’re done, would you mind getting a start on your mission report? Takeuchi wants details as soon as possible.” McCree acknowledged the scientist with a salute without looking or standing up. Once he had left he turned to Genji.

“You ratted on me.”

“Did not.”

“You told him how much Reyes used to get on my ass so he wouldn’t let it slide.”

“I only told him how much Reyes used to get on your ass because it was funny.”

Hanzo huffed I small laugh. “I can imagine.”

“Can you?” said Genji. “You have no idea. He would know Jesse was going out. He would wait until this kid -”

“Hey I’m oldern’ you!”

“Came home drunk at 2 am, sit in his room - in the dark! - until Jesse switched on the lights and say ‘hey kid where’s my report?’ and you could hear Jesse scream three floors away. “Now can you imagine,” Genji continued, “if that were Winston.”

Hanzo actually did laugh this time. He looked so genuinely tickled it lifted Jesse’s heart and he almost forgot he was the butt of the joke.

“Alright, alright,” he groaned. “You better not have given the monkey any ideas.”

“Any ideas are his alone, cross my heart,” said Genji, though he didn’t sound like he was telling the truth.

“What about we go again?” Hanzo suggested. There was an intoxicating glint in his eye. It was a new look on him. A hell of a good one. “If you don’t feel like doing paperwork, that is, I could always go again.” Jesse grinned. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” He grunted pulling himself off the mat without using his arms. Showing off. Genji was staring at both of them, face unreadable behind his visor. “Whaddya say Genj? Want to join in?”

“I will pass,” said Genji. He waved to them as he left. “Have my brother home by midnight.”

* * *

Much to his dismay however Hanzo was pulled away to do translation work on the data from Hanamura, and Jesse, showered and fed, was left to pick away at his report on an old laptop in the common room. He was bored. No, scratch that, he was antsy. He couldn’t stay concentrated on the words in front of him. Once upon a time Ana had helped him make a template, a blank form for mission reports that he could fill in to save time. He wish he still had it. He’d looked for it, he’d asked Athena, but most of those old files were gone. He’d have to make a new one and he loathed the idea of it, the tedium. Tedium now, or tedium many times later? Jesse worked, He poked out a few words. He tabbed away. He came back, reminded himself what he was writing. He went out for a smoke. Got some coffee. He thought about Hanamura, and whenever he thought about Hanamura, he thought about Hanzo. Hanzo, wistful, on the roof of his ancestral home in the rain. Hanzo asleep in the hotel room, brow soft, hair askew, golden in the morning light that would soon disappear. Jesse wanted to move, he wanted to do something He wanted to Have Hanzo back on the mats under his hands. Hand. Man, why couldn’t he have used that as an excuse? Typing was slow with one hand. Then again Winston had walked in on him trying to … spar (yes, spar) with one arm and he could still make coffee and besides, Winston was reasonable and would allow him time to account for his disability but he wouldn't let Jesse out of it.

Jesse wished he were back in the training room with Hanzo's hands on him. He gave up on the report after supper. Hanzo had been sitting at a full table at dinner, deep in conversation with Angela and his brother. He caught Jesse's eye and shot him an apologetic smile. The quiet meal had left Jesse even more restless. He needed to be doing something but all these words felt like they would never get him anywhere. So he caved, shutting down the laptop. He was going to clean Peacekeeper, he decided. Tedious as hell with one hand but not as bad as those words, and no one could complain that it wasn't something that needed to get done. Best of all cleaning his gun always kept his mind off things.

Tools. Oil. Brush. Put down a cloth to keep the desk clean. He wondered if Hanzo was done working. Maybe he should text him. Jesse took his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. He triple checked that the chambers of the revolver were empty. He’d have to tuck the rag in and then the rod because he couldn’t use two hands. Jesse looked at his phone, then put it down. He wondered how long it had been since he properly stripped Peacekeeper. Too long, probably. He wondered if Torbjorn could machine replacement parts or if he would have to order them. He checked his phone. How the hell would he get replacement parts delivered? Jesse checked his phone. He heard footsteps echo from the hallway, light and metallic. They stopped in front of his door and he listened, thinking perhaps he should get up and see what was going on. He could just picture whomever it was poised there, hand raised, ready to knock. Then the footsteps sounded again, the soft tap tap of metal on tile, headed away this time. Now McCree really had to see what was up. He jumped to his feet and stuck his head out into the hallway.

“Why the holdup?” he called, catching Hanzo, who had not been expecting someone to acknowledge his presence, off guard.

“I … could not sleep,” said Hanzo. “I was going to watch a film. I saw your light and thought maybe … you would like to join me?” Jesse grinned.

“Well why didn’t ya’ just knock and say so?”

“Honestly, it is late, and I realized it was more likely you had fallen asleep with the light on and would not wish to be disturbed.”

“By you?” said Jesse, “I don’t mind. One sec.” He wiped his hands hurriedly on a rag before joining Hanzo in the hall. McCree stretched, cracking his back.

“What are we watchin’?” Hanzo held up Ebb’s hard drive.

“I did some digging and found the film you were so eager to show me. It was listed under ‘family’ and cross listed under “historical.”

Jesse put his face in his hands. “‘Course it was.”

“There is a hitch however,” Hanzo admitted. “Hana is streaming in the rec room.” A gleam lit up in Jesse’s eye. 

“What were ya’ thinkin’ then?” he asked. Hanzo swallowed.

“My quarters are suitable. If you wish.”

“Sure,” McCree agreed, without hesitation. “Or you could come in, seein’ as you're already here.” He stood aside and gestured to the interior of his room. Hanzo considered it.

“Very well,” he agreed.

McCree’s quarters were much more spartan than he would have expected. Almost everything there had a function - clothes or bags or gun accessories. The hat hung on a peg by the door, and Jesse was wearing his serape over a blue plaid shirt. It clashed. It looked amazing. The only spark of personalization belonged to a small potted cactus on the windowsill. The pot was terracotta and had “From Beautiful Gibraltar!” painted on the side.

“It ain’t much,” Jesse admitted. “But give her some time and she’ll feel like home yet.”

Hanzo settled himself on the bed and Jesse settled in next to him, shoulders touching but arms crossed over his chest. Hanzo didn’t know what to expect of another film over a hundred years old. He was far from a film buff - to be honest, he would rather not distract himself with works of fiction. But he could see why someone would assume he’s have an interest in this movie about a mafia prince.

“You never did tell me why you left Overwatch,” he said. McCree fidgeted in his seat, crossing his legs.

“I didn’t. I left Blackwatch. I was supposed to be takin’ a break, come back and talk seriously about joining the mainstream. I was fightin’ with Reyes - our boss. Reckon he should trust us more, y’know. But he just kept gettin’ more n’ more secretive about shit, sending us on missions and wouldn’t even tell us what they were for. Flat out killed a guy we were supposed to bring in. I’d worked for him for fifteen years and suddenly it didn’t mean shit.” Jesse lapsed into silence for a moment. Hanzo had hit something of a sore spot, but he wasn’t about to back out now and feed him a bunch of half truths after his own bitching. “I wanted to say that I didn’t owe him anythin’ but the truth is I owe him everythin’, even after all that. Sometimes I wonder if I went and turned my back when he needed me most.” Jesse fell silent again, eyes fixed on the television, hands tensed, trying to let the movie distract from the rawness of the exposed nerve.

“Guilt can tell us many things,” said Hanzo. Things like, _Your brother is dragging us down. The clan needs you._ “Would it have been better,” Hanzo asked, “if you allowed Reyes to take you down with him?”

“Maybe he wouldnta’ gone down if someone had said something.”

“And maybe he would have lead you to your death. But Genji and Master Zenyatta would say that does not matter now, that we cannot change the past but we can build a better future.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I have to,” Hanzo replied, much more softly.

McCree glanced over. “You look tired already,” said Jesse. “You sure you don’t wanna call her a night?”

Hanzo shook his head. “I am enjoying the film. And the company.” He shot Jesse a brief smile.

He continued to list, though, drooping over so that eventually his head rested on Jesse’s shoulder. McCree let him be, glad that after their mission Hanzo was finally relaxing again. 

“You gonna head to bed?” he asked. 

“‘m fine where I am,” Hanzo mumbled. His cheek was resting firmly on Jesse’s shoulder, his body plastered up Jesse’s side. Hanzo’s face was buried into the fabric of the serape.

“Hanzo?” asked McCree. When he turned to speak to him his nose brushed the hair on Hanzo’s forehead.

“Yes?” he replied sleepily.

“What were you ah, gonna say back in the hotel in Hanamura? In the morning.”

Hanzo was silent for a moment. Jesse worried that he had conveniently fallen asleep to avoid the answer.

“Hey,” he said, nudging the other man. Hanzo retreated a little further into the serape. Jesse could just barely see his cheeks turning pink.

“I am sorry I lied.”

“I know.”

“I thought that somehow, if you did not know who I was, we could hold on to what we had. That maybe it could become something … more.”

“Well I mean,” Jesse replied, “Who’s to say we don’t still have it? Or maybe somethin’ a little bit better?”

Hanzo was quiet once more for so long Jesse wondered if he’s fallen asleep again.

“How is your arm by the way?” Hanzo asked, reaching out from the warm space between their bodies to brush the socket and the scarred flesh where it met Jesse’s arm, just above the elbow.

“Eh,” said Jesse, “it’s weird. I haven’t taken her off since I got ‘er. It makes the phantom feeling worse when you look down and there’s nothin’ there.”

Hanzo nodded knowingly. 

“That is the second time your arm has saved my life. In Hanamura, and back in the mountains.”

Jesse brought up his other hand so he could push a stray hair behind Hanzo’s ear. 

“Yer worth it.”

Hanzo peered up at him. Jesse braced himself for the scoff and the _“bullshit”, “thanks but no thanks,”_ and the _“you’re wasting your time”_. Instead Hanzo closed his eyes and leaned up to press a featherlight kiss to McCree’s lips. His mouth was warm and it left Jesse with the faint, bitter taste of green tea. Hanzo opened his eyes again as they parted and looked up and Jesse again. He looked… expectant. Jesse didn’t hesitate; he dove back in. Sloppy, awkward angle, he opened his mouth chasing the taste of that green tea, of Hanzo. Hanzo let him, parting his lips, feeling for his tongue. Soft, warm, wet; Jesse lamented the loss of his arm to wrap around Hanzo’s waist so he turned into the kiss, reaching with his right hand to run along the muscles under Hanzo’s tight black shirt - 

Hanzo broke away, which was surprising and a little disappointing seeing how much he had just been into their little makeout session, but before Jesse could ask him what was wrong Hanzo was yawning hugely. He tried to hide it, nuzzling back into Jesse’s shoulder, but there was no denying it given his recent sleepy state. Jesse chuckled softly.

“Sorry,” mumbled Hanzo.

“Nah, ‘s okay, You wanna stay the night?” Hanzo nodded. “Lay down then,” said Jesse. Hanzo obliged. Jesse untangled their legs and unwound the serape from his shoulders and draping it over Hanzo before getting up to turn off the light. Hanzo let down his hair and rubbed at his scalp where the elastic pulled. Jesse lay down next to him face to face, right arm draped around Hanzo’s shoulders so he could run his hand through Hanzo’s hair, massaging lightly. Hanzo practically purred and pushed into the touch, letting his arm fall around Jesse’s waist. His eyes closed and his breathing evened out, and Hanzo slept like that the whole night through.

* * *

Jesse McCree hadn’t woken up so comfy in a long time. Granted, it would have been ten times better if he and Hanzo weren’t crammed into such a tiny bed, but Jesse had to admit when you looked at it the right way waking up next to a gorgeous man in a room with a seaside view listening to the waves rumble and the seagulls call in the bright morning sun was, in fact, pretty fucking great. Hanzo sill snoozed, sprawled under Jesse’s arm. Jesse amused himself tracing the zig-zag of Hanzo’s tattoo until Hanzo twitched, waking in response to the tickle. Stray strands of hair fell between his eyes as he looked first at the room, then at Jesse.

“Mornin’ sleepyhead,” said McCree. He was, if possible, even scruffier after a good night’s sleep with his hair tangled and his beard pressed flat. It looked … cute. Hanzo felt a laugh bubbling under his ribs. It had been a long time since he woke up next to someone like this, longer still since he found their messy morning hair so endearing, since he didn’t worry about the vulnerability that came with lying so close to someone. The laughter bubbled out a little, passing his ips in a bemused huff. A poor expression, he thought, of the warmth and the lightness that filled his chest after so long. He kissed Jesse instead, soaking in the feeling of his own affections. Hanzo thought maybe it would just be a quick morning kiss, but a part of him said, why stop there? Jesse’s right here. Reach out. Feel him. Get closer. Jesse was still wearing his button up from the night before, wrinkled and soft under hanzo’s fingers. He opened his mouth t o Hanzo, letting him explore, letting Hanzo fill himself with his breath and his scent and the heat radiating from his belly. Hanzo realized belatedly that he was half hard. He didn’t want to make this awkward. Maybe Jesse wouldn’t notice.

“What time is it?” Hanzo wondered.

“Mm, dunno,” McCree replied. “Later. Nine-ish? Why?”

“Supposed to be learning meditation. Missed it.”

“Their loss,” said McCree. “‘D rather have you hear. Whaddya’ think? Do you feel tranquility?” Jesse’s hand wandered south, over the well toned muscles of Hanzo’s ass to give an appreciative squeeze. He thought he heard Jesse sigh, like the weight of yearning had been let off his chest, but Hanzo was distracted by the fact that suddenly all of his blood had run straight between his legs. _Fuck it_ , he decided. If Jesse was squeezing his ass he wasn’t bothered by awkward.

“You know,” Hanzo purred, “you should let me thank you properly. For saving my life.”

“Gladly,” said McCree, but he slid his hand in between them, stopping Hanzo from pressing on. “But I ain’t goin’ and doin’ this if what yer thinkin’ about is some kind of … reciprocity. If you want me I feel the same but - “

Hanzo cut him off with a swift, heated kiss, catching Jesse open mouthed so he could press his tongue inside. As he did so he swung a leg over so he could straddle Jesse’s hips, press their bodies together and wind his hand behind Jesse’s neck, twining his fingers in the other man’s hair. Hanzo pulled apart, his lips wet.

“I want you,” he said. “And-” he paused, took a breath. “I am glad you feel the same.”

Jesse let his hand slide around to Hanzo’s ass again, massaging the flesh there thoughtfully and causing Hanzo to squirm delightfully. If that was the case then…

Jesse tackled Hanzo, pressing their lips together and roller Hanzo over so he ended up between the the other man’s legs. Hanzo kissed him hungrily. Say thank you his ass, Jesse was going to show this self sacrificing idiot a thing or two. He shoved his hand under Hanzo’s shirt, delighting in the feel of warm muscle and smooth skin beneath his palm, how it twitched and jumped under his touch.

“Help me out here,” said Jesse, indicating Hanzo should take off his shirt. “I need a hand, as they say.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes. Jesse couldn’t help himself.

‘Pants, too,” He demanded, starting on the buttons of his own shirt. Damn but Hanzo was even better looking without any clothes on. Sure he’d gotten eyefuls of that left pec in training, but there sure was something about having them bared for him, not to mention the privilege of seeing where the V of his hips came together, the well toned muscle of Hanzo’s thighs matching those of his chest and arms. Hanzo flushed, from his ears to his cheeks to his neck to his chest. Jesse filled as much of his hand as he could with that thigh and squeezed.

Yeah, this was gonna be good.

Jesse licked his lips before he dove right in. He kissed Hanzo briefly before shuffling down and kissing the flushed head of his cock. He slipped the head into his mouth, running his tongue along the ridge, listening to Hanz huff and gasp as Jesse teased him. He took his time, biding it while Hanzo relaxed, feeling the tension ebb and flow from the muscles beneath him. He waited just until Hanzo had settled, then he took a deep breath and swallowed as much of his length as he could. Hanzo cried out with pleasure and surprise, his hand flying to Jesse’s hair, wanting to tug away and push down at the same time. Jesse let himself go, working Hanzo’s dick with his spit, working steady, and sloppy, making a mess of himself.

“Jesse,” Hanzo panted. He was wide and wild eyed, watching his cock disappear into Jesse’s mouth. Jesse pulled away, grinning, and used the opportunity to wipe some of the spit from his lips.

“Bedside table, top drawer,” he instructed. Hanzo twisted around, eagerly searching until he found Jesse’s personal stash

“You’re gonna have to help me again,” said Jesse. Hanzo nodded, spreading lubricant onto Jesse’s waiting fingers. “Now lay back darlin’.”

Jesse went slow. One finger in. Work it. Let Hanzo relax again. Crook his finger a little, feel, listen as Hanzo’s breath catches, feel him clench around him. Do it again. LIsten to him gasp. Do it again. Jesse leaned down. It was a bit awkward, rough on the muscles of his abdomen without another arm to support him.

“Swing around will ya?” he requested, sliding off the bed so he could kneel and Hanzo could rest his knees on Jesse’s shoulders.

“What are you -ah!” There was no way Jesse’s knees were going to thank him, but it was worth the noise Hanzo made when Jesse sucked down his cock once more. He worked Hanzo, stroking him from inside with his finger and outside with his mouth. And by the eager press of Hanzo’s body, the clench of his thighs, the push into his mouth, he was loving it. Jesse forged on, adding a second finger and Hanzo gasped again.

“Too much?” asked McCree.

“No! Do not stop, please,” Hanzo whined. Jesse chucked, massaging Hanzo so he squirmed then nipping at his inner thigh.

“Put your mouth back on me,” Hanzo demanded. Jesse happily obliged and in no time at all he had Hanzo writhing under him, fists clenched in the sheets, ankles locked behind Jesse’s head. But he was being so quiet, just pants and gasps and the occasional choked off groan. Jesse wondered if he was always like this until finally an unhindered cry made it past Hanzo’s lips. Jesse knew that was his cue to speed up, push harder, draw back before diving in again, engulfing himself in the scent of Hanzo’s sweat and musk.

“Jesse,” said Hanzo, choking on his name. “Jesse I’m going to - I’m close to -”

McCree sucked him down hard as far as he could as if to say yes, fuking cum already, but it still sounded like Hanzo was biting his lip and holding back until he twisted away suddenly, grabbing the pillow nearest him and just let it go, muffing his cry with the pillow to his face. Jesse massaged him through it, cum dribbling into his beard despite his best efforts. Hanzo remained where he was, chest flushed and sweaty, breathing heavy, pillow over his face. Jesse extricated himself from between Hanzo’s thighs and lay himself on the bed so he could try and peek beneath it.

“You okay?” Hanzo nodded. “Been a while?” Another nod. “You cryin’?” A pause.

“Do not judge.”

“Hey, come on, they’re good tears. Actually I’m kinda flattered.” Jesse tugged on the pillow and Hanzo let it go with some reluctance. His cheeks and eyes were wet. Jesse cupped his jaw and leaned in for a kiss. Hanzo wiped his beard with his thumb before letting him, but before long he was chasing Jesse’s affection. With one kiss after another Hanzo drank in Jesse’s adoration, redoubling his confidence. His hand wandered south, cupping McCree unabashedly through his jeans.

“You don’t have to,” mumbled McCree.

“Mm,” Hanzo replied, undoing Jesse’s belt. “But I want to.” Hanzo had strong, warm hands and calloused fingers that made short work of Jesse’s resolve. He came in Hanzo’s hands, panting his name against his mouth, Hanzo drinking in the sight of the cowboy coming undone. After cleaning themselves up a bit the two lay together, nose to nose, half dressed and in Hanzo’s case completely naked, basking in the afterglow and contemplating a shower. Now, it wasn’t well known on base that McCree was terrible at locking his door, whether he was in his room or not, but then again not many people had as much experience with the man as, say, Genji, which is why Genji knocked and then opened the door without waiting for a reply.

“Hey Eastwood you seen Hanzo at all this morning? He-”

Genji stopped dead. Hanzo flipped over, startled, and made the serious mistake of making eye contact with his younger brother.

“Holy shit!” cried Genji

“Genji,I-”

“Holy shit!” cried Genji again, pointing at the pair of them. Hanzo grabbed the pillow and slung it at his brother, hoping to chase him out of the room. Genji cackled and deflected the weapon. “Did you fuck!?” he demanded, no shortage of mirth in his voice. Hanzo, for lack of any more projectiles, pulled the blanket over his face and tried to disappear. Jesse took the moment of distraction to tuck himself back into his pants. “Answer me!” Genji insisted. Hanzo mumbled something indistinct,and possibly emitted a low groan.

“Answer me brother!” cried Genji again, this time launching himself at the bed and tackling Hanzo. Genji laughed like a maniac, trying to torture a confession from his brother. Hanzo squirmed indignantly, trying to extricate himself from Genji and keep his dignity intact. McCree guffawed until someone’s metallic foot - he wasn’t sure whose - caught him in a sensitive area. He doubled over, wheezing with pain and laughter and nearly fell off the bed.

“The heck is going on in here?” said Hana, poking her head in through the door, followed by Reinhardt who cried,

“ _Mein gott!_ ” and covered her eyes with one huge hand.

“Hey!” Hana protested.

“I do not think zis is appropriate,” said Reinhardt, addressing both to her and the men in the room.

“Yeah but your acting like I’ve never seen a naked man before!”

“ _Have_ you ever seen a naked man before?”

Hana thought about it.

“That’s not the point!”

“I think we should give them some privacy, ja?” said Reinhardt, steering Hana away with his hand still over her eyes and glaring daggers at McCree.

“You know technically Genji is always naked,” Hana continued, until Reinhardt shut the door and they could no longer hear her voice. Genji finally gave up and collapsed on the bed to catch his breath. Hanzo wrapped himself in the sheets and looked like he had found a good reason to kill his brother again, while McCree wiped tears from his eyes. Eventually Genji calmed down enough to speak.

“Ha! Seriously Eastwood, you need to lock your door.”

“You’re the one who barged in! Why the hell you comin’ to my room to look for Hanzo in the first place?”

“I dunno, maybe cause Zen said he heard you up watching movies at one AM again?”

“Guilty,” McCree admitted.

“Anyway,” said Genji, “I came because I wanted to talk to you after meditation. I took, ah, a detour, when we went to the castle. Don’t tell Zenyatta, please. I wanted to have one more look at my old rooms.”

“Ah,” said Hanzo.

“What … did you do with everything, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I do not mind. In truth I did nothing. I couldn’t bear it. I think Rin’s children picked over most of it, and I did not stop them.”

“Uncle must have gotten rid of the rest then, because there was nothing there. Yours or mine.”

Hanzo nodded. “To be expected.”

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Genji assured him. “It was just stuff. But it gave me a thought; what did you do with my money?”

“It was all the family’s money. It was returned to the assets.”

“Even the bitcoin account?” Genji asked. Hanzo blinked.

“The what now?”

“The bitcoin account. I bought a number of it back when it was cheaper, maybe like fifteen years ago.”

“What _for_?”

“Online betting,” Genji replied casually, like this was a normal thing to do.

“I did not know it existed,” Hanzo admitted.

“Isn’t that stuff worth a lot right now?” asked McCree. The conversation paused while they all thought about it, followed by a bit of a scramble as Genji disentangled himself from the bedsheets and Hanzo searched for something with which to cover his still bare privates. Genji beat him to McCree’s desk, claiming the chair. Hanzo and McCree leaned over him as Genji found the website and hastily began trying passwords.

“Shit,” he muttered after the second failed attempt.

“No dice?” asked McCree.

“No,” Genji replied. “The password is not goninja and its not Hanzosucksdick4cash either.” McCree snorted.

“Did you really use the password Hanzosucksdick4cash?”

“I mean, yeah?”

“Why?”

“Cause he does?” Genji looked at the two of them. “What, Hanzo, hasn't he paid you yet?”

Hanzo looked briefly scandalized before he realized Genji was being facetious and smacked him on his steel plated head.

“Act your age!”

“That’s it!” Genji realized, snapping his fingers. 

“The password?”

“Yeah. It was money so I was trying to be serious.”

“What is it then?”

“ _Suzume_.”

“What now?” asked McCree.

“Sparrow,” Hanzo supplied. And they were in. Hanzo raised an eyebrow. Jesse let out a long, low whistle.

“Phew. That there is a lotta cash my friend.”

All told, after interest Genji’s forgotten little nest egg had netted him about three hundred thousand dollars.

“What are you gonna _do_ with that?” aske McCree.

“Well, I owe Zenyatta ten thousand dollars -”

“What?”

“It was a dumb bet but I don’t think he would accept the money anyway. Apart from that there are some bills that need to get paid around the base. And I think I’ll take a vacation and visit mother.” He turned to Hanzo. “Do you think you are ready to join me?”

_Jeeze, what a way to spoil the morning,_ thought McCree. He had been hoping he could coerce Hanzo into lying in a little longer. The man in question had his lips drawn tight, considering Genji’s offer. Finally he let out a long sigh through his nose.

“Yes,” said Hanzo.

“Oh!” said Genji. “Uh. Good.”

“What, were you worried you would have to coerce me into it?”

“A little, yes. I was going to let Zenyatta have the first crack at it.”

“I must face her at some point,” Hanzo replied. “Better sooner rather than later.”

“You don’t think it’s maybe best to ease her into the idea?” suggested McCree. Hanzo shook his head.

“Hanzo’s right. She won’t accept it until he looks her in the eye,” said Genji. He stood. “I should go talk to Winston. I’ll see you at practice. Take a shower.” Hanzo picked up the pillow and slung it at Genji again on his way out. The door slid shut, leaving Jesse room in silence.

“Well,” said McCree. “This has been an interestin’ mornin’. Join me for a shower and then I can make bacon and eggs. How ‘bout it?” He grinned.

“Can you make pancakes?” asked Hanzo, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. Stressed out again. Jesse put his arm around Hanzo’s shoulders and kissed his temple. He wasn’t really mad at Genji, but the man’s timing was shit. 

“Sure can,” he replied.

“Then, yes, I will join you.” McCree chuckled.

“What would you have done if I couldn’t make pancakes?”

“Hm, I don’t think this relationship would have gone very far if that were the case.” 

Jesse balked for a brief second before he saw the smile curling the edge of Hanzo’s lips, then he laughed again.

“Well then, lucky me I know my way around breakfast! Let’s get going before Hana and Genji tell everyone and we can’t have a bite in peace.”

“Would you like to come?” asked Hanzo.

“Already did,” Jesse replied flippantly. Hanzo admonished him with a light jab to the side.

“I am being serious.”

“Well I mean, yeah but you don’t think it’s a little soon to be meetin’ the folks?”

“When I set off to meet Genji,” said Hanzo, “I told myself that it was something I must do, no matter how painful, for if I did not who knows when I would have gotten around to it. Not acting was only prolonging the suffering. I assumed I would have to weather my pain alone as punishment.” Hanzo paused. Usually this was where he would tear his eyes away, stare at the wall and admonish himself. “It may be selfish of me to ask, but if I am to do this I will need someone there who will be on my side.” He looked at Jesse, his eyes open open and honest. questioning, hopeful. It was a good change.

“Alright,” Jesse agreed. “Alright.”


	12. Epilogue

* * *

Jesse and Hanzo waited behind in the rental car, listening to pop radio while Genji and Zenyatta went on ahead. Genji hadn’t told their mother Hanzo was going to be there. Better the act of facing her, he reminded them, then asking for platitudes from afar. Hanzo had been quiet for most of the flight and the ride over. Now he sat shotgun, staring at the dashboard, waiting. Jesse put his hand over Hanzo’s where it sat on his knee, rubbing his thumb over the back of Hanzo’s hand. It was growing warm in the car, spring having sprung to it’s fullest. Jesse was wondering if he should say something to keep Hanzo’s mind off things. He also wondered what the hell he could possibly say.

“I need air,” Hanzo declared suddenly, throwing open the door and practically falling out of the vehicle. Jesse followed him, taking the key from the ignition and cutting off the tinny tunes. Hanzo was sitting on the curb taking deep, steadying breaths. Jesse lit a cigarillo and leaned on the hood of the car, waiting patiently. Soon enough Hanzo held out a hand, wordlessly beckoning. Jesse handed him the cigarillo between thumb and forefinger. Hanzo grunted in thanks, taking a long pull.

“You know,” said McCree, “I find it kind of ironic that you two take breathing instruction from a man who doesn’t breath.”

“I try not to question it,” Hanzo replied. “It works.” He handed the cigarillo back and Jesse took another pull, holding the smoke for a moment before releasing it in a blue-grey cloud. It passed it back to Hanzo once more.

“What do you think you ma’d do,” he asked, “if I kissed her hand? She flattered by that kind of thing?”

“She would think you are crazy. Actually,” his eyes slid up and down McCree, taking in his attire. They’d convinced him to do away with the chaps and the spurs, but that still left cowboy boots, the serape, and Jesse’s ever present hat. “Your attire already covers that nicely.”

“Admit it, you like it,” said McCree. Hanzo only grunted, but it was an assent. “Anyway you’re on the right track, that’s what I was thinkin’, completing the picture but you know, in a gentlemanly way.”

Hazno shook his head, hogging the cigarillo. “You know what, go ahead. Find out what happens.”

Inside, Genji and Zenyatta sat on the couch opposite Shimada Fuyumi, each with a steaming cup of tea. Genji sipped his, savoring the warmth. Zenyatta appreciated her thoughtfulness.

“Anyway,” said Genji. “We brought you something.” He presented Fuyumi with a metal case containing the same framed family portrait Hanzo had taken from the household in Hanamura, only this time much more carefully packed. His mother gasped audibly.

“You didn’t!”

“No, I didn’t actually,” said Genji. “Though I tried. Hanzo brought it.” Fuyumi’s hands tightened on the frame.

“Brought,” she repeated.

“To me, yes,” said Genji. “It’s a gesture of good will.”

“You really got to him, didn’t you?” said Fuyumi, not looking up from the face of her late husband.”

“To Hanzo?” asked Genji.

“No, you, Master Zenyatta. To Genji.”

“I am afraid I do not entirely follow,” Zenyatta admitted. Fuyumi sighed.

“Not long ago Genji was filled with a rage not even I could penetrate. He would have killed his brother without question. And now it almost seems as if he has forgiven him.” Her voice was level, but Genji knew better than to assume that meant she was okay with this turn of events. Genji took a deep breath.

“It was my idea,” he said. “I wanted to face Hanzo again. To show him that I accepted who I was. That he had harmed me and I had come out the other side, to prove to him his anger could no longer hurt me. But when I got to the castle, he wasn’t there.” Fuyumi nodded. “I put my ear to the ground. Learned the scion of the Shimada had disappeared, only to show his face but once a year on the anniversary of his brother’s death.” Genji’s hands tightened on his teacup. Zenyatta picked up the story.

“I suggested to Genji that Hanzo probably felt guilt for what he had done. I proposed that should Genji still wish to face him he extend to his brother an invitation, a chance to seek redemption should he choose to do so.”

“He took it,” said Genji. “Do you find that hard to believe?”

Fuyumi sighed through her nose. “No,” she replied. Genji and Zenyatta glanced at one another. Zenyatta spoke up.

“Hanzo has accompanied us here. He wishes to see you, if you will have him.”

“And the American?” she asked. Genji raised his eyebrows.

“How do you know about McCree?”

Fuyumi nodded to the window. “They’re out by your shitty rent-a-car, smoking. Also Majima gave me a call not to long ago, gave me a heads up that Hanzo might show his face and that he would probably have a cowboy in tow. I didn’t think he meant literally, though. So, Genji, bring them in.”

McCree’s phone chirruped, drawing the attention of the two men.

“We’re goin’ in,” McCree declared upon reading Genji’s message. “You lead the way.”

Considering everything he had learned about the Shimada family. McCree had honestly expected Genji to be the one to take after their mother. At a glance it appeared as if that might not have been the case; Fuyumi’s little bungalow was tasteful but spartan. Nothing too gaudy, except maybe the bright green blanket thrown across the back of the couch. No wasted space, except maybe the game consoles tucked onto a shelf beneath the television. Little things, here and there, that said Fuyumi, things that Genji would have kept out on display, things Hanzo would have tidied away. A little bit of both. She certainly looked like her elder son, though. They shared the same angular jaw and aquiline nose. Despite her age her back was ramrod straight, and her dark eyes piercing. She greeted Hanzo with a look that said _Well?_ Hanzo cleared his throat.

“It is good to see you, mother. This is Jesse McCree. McCree, this is my mother, Shimada Fuyumi.” Fuyumi bowed to McCree, so he took the cue and did the same, taking off his hat and holding it against his chest.

“Howdy,” said McCree. Should he say it? he wondered. He was gonna say it. “Pleasure to meet you. I can finally see where Hanzo gets his good looks from.”

Fuyumi looked to her eldest and raised an eyebrow with what Jesse realized warmly was amusement. Hanzo was blushing. He said something Jesse couldn’t understand in Japanese, to which is mother replied in english.

“Good intentions, terrible timing. Would you like some tea, Mister McCree?”

“Just McCree is fine ma’am. And I’d love some, thank you.”

They squished themselves onto the couch next to Genji and Zenyatta while Fuyumi poured them tea. Jesse took a sip while Hanzo worried his in his hands. It tasted different than Jesse was used to. More herbal. Sort of flowery.

“Jasmine,” Genji supplied when he saw the look on Jesse’s face.

“O’ course,” said Jesse, like the answer was obvious, Maybe it would grow on him. If he kept hanging out with this family it would have to.

“How are you doing, mother?” asked Hanzo, once she was seated.

“As well as can be,” she replied. “I’m glad Genji will be around more. I don’t miss Sojiro’s family, but I miss Hanamura.”

“As do I,” Hanzo replied.

“And you?” she asked. “How are you doing, Hanzo?” Hanzo took a deep breath.

“Terrible,” he admitted. Jesse pressed into him slightly, offering Hanzo his warmth. “But I am doing better,” Hanzo concluded. Fuyumi nodded, picking up her tea. The room was silent. If this were a movie, thought McCree, there would be a clock ticking in the background. But no-one really had clocks that ticked any more.

“This was a bad idea,” Hanzo muttered, putting down his tea and rising. “No amount of begging for forgiveness is going to -” 

“Sit down,” Fuyumi ordered. Jesse raised his steel hand to clamp down on Hanzo’s shoulder and pulled him back down onto the couch, interrupting his dramatic exit. Hanzo huffed in annoyance. Fuyumi put her cup down and reached over the table to take Hanzo’s hand in her own. Hanzo had not seen her in almost ten years, and it occurred to him for the first time how old she looked, as if the years had worked on her hard and fast in the decade past. He wondered how he must look to her, with grey in his hair. She’d never seen him with a beard.

“I used to tell Sojiro that he was too easy on you two,” she said. “That love alone was not enough to survive the viper’s nest that the Shimada-gumi was becoming. You understood. You grew up quick, and you put yourself aside for your family. You wanted what they told you was best for the people around you, and for honor. None of these things your uncle cares about any more.” She sighed, “Or ever did. The venom of his lies had us all fooled.”

“I appreciate what you are saying,” said Hanzo. “But that still does not excuse the decisions I made. The path I chose to take.”

“The path you are taking has you seeking redemption. What does McCree think of this?”

McCree, caught in the action of sipping his tea, spluttered a little, not expecting to be drawn into the conversation. “Well, I, uh, I believe people can change. I seen it firsthand. For bad and good. So I know what the bad looks like, and Hanzo doesn’t look bad, so…” he trailed off, having realized he was rambling. “He means it,” finished McCree.

“Do you believe that, Hanzo?”

“I want to.”

Jesse nudged him.

“I do,” Hanzo reiterated.

“Good,” said Fuyumi, letting go of his hand. “Keep that up, and I might just get to know my son again.”

“Is there anything,” Hanzo asked his mother, “is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” she replied. “Stick with Genji, I will say that. Look out for him.” Hanzo nodded. Hanzo bowed, still seated.

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“Then,” said Fuyumi, “we’ll see whether you find what you seek. It seems so far your path has been fruitful, and interesting.”

McCree chuckled. “You can say that again.”

“Oh?” said Fuyumi. “This sounds like a story.” She settled back in the loveseat, teacup nestled in her hands. “Why don’t you start with how you met?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, especially those who've stuck with it the whole way through! This represents literally a year's worth of work, and the first long fic I have finished ever, so it's a big personal milestone. Hope you had a good time!


End file.
